


When Trust and Truth Collide

by silvergalaxy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Banter, Boss/Employee Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Insomnia, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Harry Potter, Office Romance, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergalaxy/pseuds/silvergalaxy
Summary: Harry meets Draco for the first time in the employee break room on a boring Wednesday morning and they immediately hit it off. Chance encounters turn into dates, and dates turn into feelings.Oh, yeah. Draco's also Harry's boss. Harry has no idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELL. 
> 
> This plot-bunny came to me ... four years ago, and I've been slowly chipping away at it ever since. 
> 
> I'd like to start this out by saying, although I'm posting this in chapters, this fic is complete. I will edit and update each chapter as quickly as possible, but I do have two jobs and a volunteer position that take priority. 
> 
> This fic features a boss/employee relationship, unbeknownst to the employee (Oh, Harry). While there are no real power imbalances between the two, I want to make it clear that if this type of relationship is something you are uncomfortable with, please use your own discretion as to whether or not you want to read. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> XO  
> LP

Harry has been working in the Public Relations department of the Malfoy & Associates Law Firm for just over three months now, and he still gets laughed at in the mornings when he enters the main work area after climbing up the long stairwell. Ron works in the cramped cubicle next to Harry’s and never gives him a hard time when he arrives at his desk, even when he’s slightly out of breath from the steep climb. Ron, after a decade of friendship, is no stranger to Harry’s dislike for enclosed spaces. Of course, Harry knows he _could_ use the lift, but he’s heard it creak and groan on a daily basis, and even properly working lifts still manage to strike a chord of unease within him, so he continues to opt for the silent stairs.

This particular morning, Harry flops into his chair with a slightly squashed chocolate chip muffin in his left hand, mussed up hair and dark circles under his eyes. When Ron raises an eyebrow, Harry merely shrugs and fixes him with a tired grin.

“Could’ve sworn I turned my alarm on,” he sighs, setting his breakfast onto his desk, careful not to knock over any of the staggering piles of files he has precariously balanced across his workspace.

“I bet,” Ron says while fiddling with a pen. “You still having trouble sleeping, then?” he asks more quietly, leaning in so that only Harry can hear him. The office is still fairly empty for this time of the morning, considering that Harry himself had been running late. He swivels around in his chair, taking note of who’s missing, before responding to Ron, keeping his voice pitched low. He appreciates Ron’s uncharacteristic caution; his seemingly unending insomniac tendencies aren’t exactly rumours he wants flying around the office.

“A bit, yeah,” Harry admits, shrugging. “I fell asleep around four. Don’t - don’t tell Hermione, alright? I’m getting it sorted.”

“You know I won’t,” Ron says, turning back to his computer screen and tossing his infamous ball of elastic bands into the air. Harry knows he probably will tell her, anyways. He doesn’t blame him, Hermione’s not someone who takes kindly to being left out of the loop, especially when it comes to either of their well-beings.

It takes a minute for his laptop to boot up, and he chews contentedly away on the warm muffin, which tastes surprisingly better than usual despite its squishiness. More people are filing onto his floor now, bustling past Harry’s tiny space in various states of hurry. He hears the sound of the main printer revving up, and someone across the room has already spilled their coffee onto the dark rug in the designated seating area. Harry snorts out a laugh at the chaos already starting, and slips in his earbuds as he opens his inbox. He immediately groans at the amount of unread emails from his superiors. Adjusting his glasses and rubbing a hand over his tired face, he opens the first one.

____________________________

 

It turns out not taking the lift payed off, because just an hour later, Harry receives a panicked text from George, who, as far as Harry can tell, has never been on time in his life. He’s technically Harry’s boss, although Harry’s known him for ages, and therefore he can’t take him seriously. How can you take orders from a bloke who you watched wreak havoc on every school he ever went to? George’s been at the practice for a couple of years now, and he’s basically the reason why either Harry or Ron got their jobs in the first place. He knows which shortcuts are the best and who you can get away with playing pranks on. George had immediately taken Harry under his wing, both when he was still an awkward teenager and now as his work protégé, determined to make Harry as comfortable and happy as possible in his weird, overbearing way.

 

 _The Better Prankster_  

> Harry, the lift just broke down next to our floor and I’m all alone.  Go get maintenance ASAP

_Harry Potter_  

> who’s stupid for not taking the lift now?
> 
> when did you even change your contact name back to this? It’s not even an insult, I don’t play pranks, George.

_The Better Prankster_  

> Still you, Mr. “I’m not claustrophobic I’m just healthy”. And I never, you probably subconsciously changed it because you know it’s the truth.

 

Harry snorts despite himself before standing up so he can try to find a member of the maintenance staff. He’d let George suffer a bit first, if not for the fact that he knows if he doesn’t help, George would find a sure-fire way to embarrass him sometime in the near future.

Ron looks up as he bustles past. “Where’re you going?” he asks, his fingers plucking elastics away from the ball, using them to shoot against the wall of his cubicle.

“George got himself stuck in the lift,” Harry informs him drily. Ron nods, satisfied with Harry’s answer and not surprised in the slightest by his brother’s predicament. Harry makes his way to the second floor where the maintenance staff spend the majority of their time while not fixing problems around the large building. Harry raps sharply on the door twice, and opens it a crack. As he walks into the room the workers look to him questioningly. He hopes he doesn’t have muffin crumbs on his lips. Christ, that would be embarrassing.

Harry offers a friendly wave, running his other hand across his mouth just in case there really are any stray crumbs on his face.

“Er, hi,” he says. “The lift is stuck on the third floor, d’you lot fix that? Or do I get someone else? My supervisor is in there,” He explains, not even sure if lifts were their duty to keep running. They do seem a little exasperated, starting to mutter about the piece of shit lift and how Malfoy was so loaded rich, and the company was doing well enough that purchasing a new one shouldn’t be a problem. They get up though, so Harry guesses that means they’re planning on helping.

Harry also wants to mention that the elusive Malfoy practically lives in his office, so the chances of being able to find him and file a complaint were slim, but he decides to keep his mouth shut and follow the men back to the lift doors.

It’s pretty ridiculous that he’s been working here for months now, and he’s yet to actually meet Malfoy. He’s Harry’s boss, after all, but the company has reached such ridiculous levels of success that Harry supposes the git thinks himself as too important to introduce himself to a lowly PR assistant.

As they walk, Harry takes in the space. Besides the lift, the office is quite lovely. The mellow coloured walls are decorated with bright, abstract paintings and advertisements, and the several waiting areas and lounging spaces are furnished with new wooden tables and suede chairs that give it a sophisticated but comfortable feeling. The fridges are always stocked, most of the faces are friendly, and although Malfoy himself has a reputation of being aloof and cold, the same people who say that also call him fair, witty, and competent, so Harry supposes things could be significantly worse than a rickety lift.

Maintenance gets George out in roughly twenty minutes, and Harry is rewarded with a pat on the head and a sloppy kiss on the cheek before George rushes up to the fourth floor, already an hour and a half late. Harry shakes his head, taking a glance down at his wristwatch; an expensive birthday gift from Hermione that he insisted he didn’t need. The watch itself was pretty standard, a bit boring even, but Harry likes it anyways, and he wears it almost everywhere. The hands on the watch show it’s five minutes ‘til ten, and even though Harry usually didn’t take his morning break for another hour, he decides he may as well go up now while he’s away from his seat.

The stairs are much more crowded than usual, seeing as the main lift was down. Harry smiles pleasantly at the people he knows, and at one point even stops to make conversation with one of the interns who is even newer than Harry himself.

Apparently, Harry knows less people in the building than he thought, because when he enters the room he doesn’t recognize a single person. He contributes it to the fact that this isn’t his normal break time so the usual crowd of relaxing employees are all hard at work while Harry serves himself a cup of his sugary tea amidst a crowd of strangers. He feels a little awkward; he’s not a person who particularly likes change in schedule. He sits himself down on an empty sofa, finding comfort in the fact that even though he feels out of place his lemon ginger tea tastes the same. He looks around for a familiar face, but the only person he recognizes the slightest bit is Luna from Communication Services on the first floor, who has a tendency to talk about things that no one actually understands. Any other morning, he’d go and say hello, but he can already feel a headache blooming in his temples, and existential comments from Luna will only make it worse, so Harry purposely avoids eye contact and goes back to sipping his drink until his attention is drawn to the banging cupboard doors. A tall blond bloke has his arm in the cupboard, shuffling the assorted boxes of tea and mugs around. He’s practically got the contents ransacked. The man throws his hands up in the air in exasperation.

“No lemon ginger?” he says, turning to the woman next to him. She meets his eyes and blushes before shrugging apologetically and turning back to continue her conversation with her friend.

“Hey,” Harry calls out, trying to grab his attention. “Er, it’s over here. Sorry, I forgot to put it back,” he inclines his head towards where the box lies on the coffee table in front of him.

When the man turns, Harry is immediately confronted with one of the most handsome faces he’s ever seen.

“Oh,” the man says, before smartly walking over and scooping up the tea. “Thank you.”

“‘Course,” Harry says earnestly while his head spins with a nervous buzzing. Despite being capable of making dynamic connections with friends, a first encounter with anyone has a tendency to make him a little anxious. Spending a moment chatting with someone is something he loves, but usually with people he already knows, or nice old ladies on the tube. Not with devastatingly handsome coworkers he never knew he had.

The man’s voice is both deeper and quieter than Harry was expecting. “Are you new?” he asks, maneuvering around the table until he’s sitting on the opposite arm of the sofa. He’s seemed to have momentarily forgotten about his search for the tea, resting the half empty box on his thigh.

Harry takes another gulp of his own tea before setting it on the brightly coloured coaster on the table. He wipes his mouth. The bloke is a total dreamboat; his broad shoulders filling out his blue dress shirt nicely, his strong forearms visible from where his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. There’s a tattoo there, on his left forearm, but Harry can’t make out the shape of it from where he’s sitting. His eyes are _different,_ a steely grey, that, if not for the faint laugh lines surrounding them, would seem terribly cold. His mop of soft looking blond hair seems to be effortlessly perfect. His mouth is downright sinful, playful and tilting upwards in a smirk, lips a bitten and rosy pink to match his faintly flushed cheeks.

“I was gonna to ask you the same thing,” Harry admits before introducing himself. “I’m Harry, I’ve been here for a few months now. In PR.”

Harry is sure he’d remember a face like this, so he’s quite positive of the fact that he’s never seen this bloke before.

“Ah,” the man sighs out. “Explains why we haven’t met, I’m not down on your floor very often. Nothing personal, of course,” he jokes lightly. It’s a little weak, but Harry laughs along anyways just to be nice. Screw George, he can be plenty polite.

“Draco. Nice to meet you, Harry,” Draco sticks out his hand for a shake. Harry complies, hoping his hand isn’t too clammy or warm before sliding it into Draco’s sturdy grip, giving his hand two firm shakes before releasing it.

Harry meets his warm gaze, unable to stop himself from looking.

“Likewise,” he says.

“Do you usually take your breaks in here? I think I’d remember seeing you around,” Draco remarks conversationally. What an embarrassing line, Harry thinks to himself joyfully. He’s appreciating this bloke more and more - an equally awkward conversation from both contributing parties undoubtedly makes things easier for him.

“Usually not this early,” Harry informs Draco. “Er, the lift broke down - which, if you ask me, is ridiculous because it’s not as if the company doesn’t have the means to install a decent one, right? Anyways, I had to find maintenance to get it fixed,” Harry cuts his own rambling off before he can continue on this tangent. “So I took my break earlier than usual because I was already away from my desk.”

Draco seems somewhat amused, nodding along like he’s following Harry’s bumpy train of thought.

Harry shrugs, “I tend to ramble, a bit.”

“I believe it,” Draco remarks, letting out the smallest laugh. Harry is kind of enamored with the noise he’s made and the way he scrunches his nose in amusement. Harry is damn pleased with himself for being able to induce that kind of response. He lifts his mug back to his mouth to take in another sugary slurp. There’s a feeling of warmth making home in his stomach, and he’s not so sure whether it’s from the tea, or from his new acquaintance.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment before Draco eases himself off of the sofa, running a hand through his hair, sweeping a few loose tendrils out of his face. “It was nice meeting you, Harry. I do have to get back to work though, so I better get started on this tea.”

“Yeah, of course, no worries,” Harry replies, shifting so he’s looking up at Draco, trying to enjoy the view while he still has the chance. “Hopefully I’ll see you at some point.”

“I think I can make that happen,” Draco replies swiftly, ending his sentence with a wink and leaving Harry’s insides squirming happily. Was that flirting? Harry thinks it may have been flirting.

Draco walks away, and looks over his shoulder one last time at Harry, who very quickly averts his gaze away from Draco’s arse. Which, just for the record, was pretty mesmerizing in and of itself, so Harry can’t be blamed.

He smiles stupidly to himself as he drinks the rest of his tea, replaying the encounter and Draco’s small laugh over and over in his mind until he’s pretty sure his break is well over. On his way out of the room he steals a few pretzels from an unsuspecting Neville, who’d fallen asleep with an open bag in his hand. He makes his way back down the stairs, still unable to wipe his grin away, his cheeks flushed and his heart beating excitedly in his chest. Once Harry reaches his desk and the erratic beating of his heart has slowed to a dull throb, he thinks back to the conversation one last time to make sure he didn’t say anything too embarrassing.

He hasn’t had a boyfriend since he moved to London earlier in the summer, hasn’t been on more than one date for that matter. The stress of moving to a new city for the first time, plus the added stress of a new job in the field he always wanted was a lot to handle, and dating didn’t seem like much of a reasonable option as he adjusted to his new life. He isn’t worried about ending up alone or anything dramatic like that, but he knows when you find a bloke who seems as nice and normal as Draco does, you should probably explore that option.

Half of his squished muffin is still in its wrapper tucked away in the corner of his desk, and he greedily pushes the last few bites into his mouth as he haphazardly types out messages to a potential new client who they’re desperately attempting to reel in. Harry almost starts off the email with “Dear Diary, today I met the hottest bloke in London.” At this point he shakes himself out of his stupor, laughing and startling Ron into knocking his knee off of the underside of his own desk.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry amends, and he hears Ron grumble over the divider but knows he’s smiling on the other side.

____________________________

 

Harry is exhausted by the time he eventually gets home late that night - too many emails from his boss, and his boss’s boss, and countless other companies with stupid problems he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with. His head has had a bit of a painful twinge all day, and his fingers are numb from typing and they continually fumble over his keys as he tries to unlock the door to his flat.

When he’s finally inside, he drops his knapsack right away and flips on the light, illuminating the room and making his eyes burn. It had been a long day, and Harry is even more exhausted than usual after having to stay an extra three hours to sort out a client issue with George and Gawain Robards.

Hedwig is waiting for him, and she pads quietly over, winding herself around his legs and purring like a motor, begging for cuddles.

“Hedwig,” Harry coos sleepily, picking her up gently between his calloused hands and kissing her wet nose. Cradling the cat, Harry walks them both into the tiny kitchen to find her some treats. Chicken are her favourite and she refuses any and all seafood treats, something that makes Harry endlessly amused. “Should’ve named you Diva,” he thinks aloud. He feeds her two, and hides another in her food dish for a surprise, before sliding some almost stale bread into the toaster for a quick supper. As he waits for the toast to pop, he wanders about the room, tidying the spice rack and putting away clean dishes left in the dishwasher. He stands still for a minute, wondering if he should maybe give Hermione a call and ask her what you’re supposed to do when you think you might have a crush on a coworker you just met, when the toaster spits out his food with a clang, bringing him out of his thoughts and back to his grumbling stomach.

____________________________

 

When Harry wakes up the next morning, he’s managed to get about two hours of sleep, but his head is feeling better and Hedwig is purring away from where she’s sleeping by the curve of his legs. It’s early, earlier than he usually gets out of bed to get ready for work, but his room is lit up by the morning sun, rays of light streaming in lines across his bedspread and into his eyes, making him squint uncomfortably. He should’ve closed his blinds before he tried to fall  asleep the night before, but he only realized they were open once he was snug under his covers. He’s regretting that decision to not fix them now, and he knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall asleep again.

Instead, he shuffles out of the warm confines of his bed, careful not to disturb Hedwig as he walks clumsily into his bathroom, bare feet cold on the tile. He runs the shower as he pisses, sighs in bliss as he steps into the tub, hot water washing over his body, relaxing his muscles and waking him up slowly. He takes his time washing and shampooing his hair, working it up to a nice lather, using his best smelling conditioner just in case he gets to see Draco again today - uh. And for other, professional reasons. Obviously.

He stays under the hot stream until it begins to run cold, hopping out and towel drying his hair, letting his curls do as they pleased. Despite continuous pleas from both Hermione and Ginny, Harry finds himself uncaring as to whether his hair is perfectly combed. The Dursleys had hated his hair, too, and he uses that as motivation to leave it exactly how it is.

It’s pushing 7:30 by the time Harry is dried off and dressed in his khakis and navy dress shirt - he’s pretty sure it’s clean, and it’s nearly wrinkle free, which is an accomplishment in itself. The company dress code isn’t all that serious, he could probably show up in his football shorts and no one would blink an eye as long as his work was still completed at the end of the day. Even though Harry isn’t exactly what people would describe as suave, he does like to at least try and look the part of a professional, so he saves the shorts for another more appropriate occasion.

He walks into the kitchen, pulling an old U of S jumper over his head as he goes. His fridge is mostly empty when he takes a peek during his hunt for a quick and easy breakfast; there are a few condiments on one shelf, in addition to half a dozen Gatorade, a carton of eggs, a lonely beer and the leftover pasta he was saving for supper that night. He grabs a banana from the basket on his counter instead, swooping out of the house with it before he has time to realize it wasn’t completely ripe. Harry chews away at it anyways during his walk to the Underground, weaving in and out of the crazy London pedestrian traffic.

After his commute, Harry is pretty damn pleased with himself. According to his watch he still has twenty minutes until his shift actually begins, so he has time to relax and make himself a cup of tea before he settles at his desk for the morning. He bobs his head along to the music from his ear buds as he opens the front door of the building, humming softly to himself.

There seems to be hardly anyone in the office as Harry climbs up floor after floor, and by the time he reaches the break room, he’s genuinely enjoying this arriving early thing; it’s not like he actually gets any sleep anyways.

 

It’s also Thursday, which is hands down the best weekday, Harry will argue with anyone who says different. In addition to that, he’s lounging back in the most sought-after recliner in the building with his feet up and a piping hot mug in hand, at ease and reveling in the comforting silence. Today, he thinks, is going to be a good day.

____________________________

 

Today was most definitely fucking not a good day.

Everything was going well until about two in the afternoon. Harry had eaten his usual chicken sandwich that he bought from his favourite deli around the corner, George had been too busy to pull any of his typical annoying shit on Harry, and Robards - his _real_ boss, _thank you,_ George - had come down to his cubicle to commend him on a job well done on convincing yet another company to choose Malfoy & Associates over their closest competition.

So, Harry was in a pretty fantastic mood leading up to The Incident.

He was clicking open some of his files on his latest projects when a stray rubber band shoots over his divider, behind his glasses, and straight into his eye. What the fuck.

“What the fuck?” Harry yelps, his hand scrambling away from his keyboard to grab at his eye as he jumps out of his chair, sending it spinning out a few feet behind him as the last mouthfuls of his tea splash across his keyboard. “How did you even _do_ that?” He gripes, shuffling over to Ron, who’s in near hysterics at Harry’s misfortune.

“They don’t call me Ron Bull’s-eye Weasley for nothing, mate,” he boasts, leaning back in his chair, looking terribly proud of himself.

“No one calls you that, you git,” Harry shoots back, flipping him off as he turns back to his own desk, hand still cradling his bloodshot eye, glasses dangling in his left hand. “Do your work, Jesus Christ.”

Except for when Harry sits back at his desk to do his own work, it’s gone.

It’s gone - deleted, erased, nowhere to be found.

 

It’s all fucking gone.

____________________________

 

By the time Harry has managed to retrieve the majority of his deleted work, it’s pushing 8 o’clock and he’s got at least another two hours of rewriting documents and hysterical emails to IT ahead of him. It’s looking like he’s not going to get to go home for another while.

He’s pretty sure that he’s sweating through his button-up, and his head is throbbing from the brightness of the screen that he’s been staring at for going on six hours straight. He’s rolling his neck back, trying to work out the painful kinks, when he hears the telltale squeaking of the stairwell door opening.

It’s probably just night security doing one of their routine checks, so Harry ignores them and diligently goes back to panicking about his workload. In fact, he’s panicking so diligently that he doesn’t notice that Draco is standing over him until he clears his throat rather loudly.

Harry whips around, eyes simultaneously trying to adjust from the abrupt change in lighting and taking in Draco’s presence.

“Oh,” Harry breathes in surprise. He didn’t think anyone else was left in the office. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Draco echoes. “What are you still doing here?”

“Y’know. Work stuff,” Harry grimaces, trying to appear calm in the face of beauty. He fidgets with his hands, hoping his pit stains aren’t completely visible to Draco.

“Everything going alright, then? You look a little … out of it,” He gestures to the mess on Harry’s desk; scrunched up papers, thick manuals on file retrieval he stole from the tech office, and multiple empty energy drink bottles. Draco must’ve been on his way out of the office, he’s got his coat on and a leather bag over his shoulder, keys in hand.

“What? Yeah, yeah sure. Nothing that isn’t fixable,” Harry says. He’s not completely sure if he’s trying to convince Draco or himself.

“Right, of course,” Draco replies. Harry assumes he’s just going to go now and leave Harry to his work, but instead he pulls over Ron’s chair so he’s closer to Harry and his messy desk. “So, what exactly is ‘fixable’?” Draco puts the air quotes around the word and everything, and Harry thinks that’s hilariously charming, however he’s still so stressed that he can barely appreciate it.

Harry’s too exhausted to come up with a believable lie as to why he’s still at his desk three hours after the majority of his co-workers left for home, so he decides to cut right to the chase on the real issue.

“I deleted the last two weeks’ worth of files from my computer,” he admits, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What the hell would you do that for?” Draco blurts immediately, leaning over Harry as if he was going to be able to find the files himself.

“Obviously I didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry says huffily, throwing his hands up in the air. “Either way, I’ve gotten most of ‘em back now. There’s only two I couldn’t find so I’m starting from scratch, I’ve got the notes outlined here, see?” He shoves a notebook with pages of scribbles under Draco’s nose to show him that Harry’s got this under control.

“Jesus, Harry,” Draco says, and _wow_. Harry wants to hear his name come out of Draco’s mouth again and again. “How long have you been fixing all of this?” His eyes are wide and the light from Harry’s laptop reflects against them, and Harry is so distracted that he almost forgets to answer.

“Erm, five or six hours? Probably. Yeah, six.” He rubs a hand over his eyes and back into his curls. When he looks at Draco again, his lips are pressed together tightly and he looks exasperated.

“Go home, finish this tomorrow. Sleep.”

Harry would if he could.

“You’re going to burn yourself out,” Draco continues, a slight air of authority in his voice, but Harry’s not having any of that. He appreciates the concern, he really does, but he does not need Draco to tell him when enough is enough. They hardly know each other.

“No, I will not,” Harry snaps. He doesn’t really mean to be so rude, but he’s running on pure caffeine and nervous adrenaline.

Draco just raises an eyebrow, as if to say _really?_ And seriously, damn this bloke and his handsome face and rational ideas. Harry sighs, letting his head collapse into the cradle of his arms.

“You’re probably right,” Harry concedes, swallowing his pride at the admission.

“I know I am. You’ll be much more efficient once you’re well rested,” Draco says matter-of-factly, and Harry can’t help it when his mouth twitches a little bit at that. He hasn’t been well rested in ages. “Turn off your computer and go home. You can finish this up tomorrow,” Draco repeats himself.

Harry knows he’s right, and it’s not like these particular files are majorly important ones, so he powers off his laptop, and sweeps the mess on his desk into the trash bin. His bones seem to creak when he finally stands from his chair, but the stretch feels good. He shrugs his coat on and swings his knapsack onto his back, shuffling his feet a little as he waits for Draco to move.

“Heading out?” Harry questions, as they both begin to walk across the cubicle area and into the hall. Most of the lights are out, and the only glimpses of Draco’s face that Harry gets are illuminated by the blue hue of monitors as they pass.

“Yes, I am,” Draco says. _Duh._ Nice going, Harry.

“Nice, well, uh. I’ll see you later?” Harry replies, because Draco has stopped outside the door of the lift, and is already leaning in to press the button, and Harry is planning on continuing down the hall until he reaches the stairs.

“You’re not going down?” Draco asks, a confused look crossing over his face as he adjusts his strap over his shoulder.

Harry hesitates, not wanting to admit something so silly to a stranger. But at that moment the lift pings with its arrival, and Draco sticks out his hand to hold the doors open.

“I am,” Harry says, before he begins talking out of his arse. “I’m just on a bit of a fitness kick right now, so I’m trying to take the stairs as much as possible.”

Harry’s never been on a fitness kick in his _life,_ but a white lie never hurt anybody.

“Ah,” says Draco, letting go of the door so it slides closed. “Well, let me come with you.”

“Sure,” Harry shrugs, and they make their way a few paces down the hall. He holds the door open for Draco, it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with being able to ogle Draco freely.

They talk trivial things as they make their way down to the first floor, like the unusually warm autumn that London’s been experiencing and the way the light over the second-floor landing is flickering kind of like it’s a strobe light. Just being in Draco’s vicinity has lightened Harry’s mood increasingly, and he’s smiling freely by the time they exit the door to the parking garage below the building.

“You’ve got a ride home?” Draco turns to him and asks, and Harry’s brain sings at the thought of Draco being concerned about Harry getting home safely. Fit _and_ thoughtful. Nice.

“Mhm,” Harry hums in affirmative, even though he doesn’t. “Hey, thanks for hauling me away from my desk, by the way.”

Draco grins widely, stepping towards Harry so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “Anytime, Harry,” he says. His hand is warm where as it wraps around Harry’s bicep, giving a firm squeeze before letting go. He steps farther away again, hitting the unlock button on his car. Draco throws a wave over his shoulder as he jogs away and climbs into the driver’s side, revving up and driving out into the night.

Harry walks the rest of the way to the tube station, hand brushing against his arm where he can feel the ghost of Draco’s touch.

Harry is so, so screwed.

____________________________

 

The next day passes with a significantly less amount of drama, and Harry has his last two documents rewritten by lunch time.

Ron has been hovering over their divider for the majority of the morning, offering countless sincere apologies and ideas for how he can make it up to Harry. Judging by the insurmountable guilt riddling his tone, Harry thinks he probably told Hermione what he did, and also most likely mentioned Harry’s persistent insomnia to her as well.

“Look, I’m serious. I’ll give you one free punch. This is the only time you will ever hear me offer, so you should make the best of it,” he insists, and Harry has had enough.

Snorting, he says, “Ron, stop, alright? It’s over and done with, and I’m not mad.”

“You were literally pulling out your own hair yesterday. Pretty sure I also saw a few tears around five o’clock, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Good job keeping quiet,” Harry says, a little embarrassed. He thought he was being inconspicuous with the tears, but he guesses that Ron is more perceptive than most, in his own strange way. “Listen, since you’re so crazy about fixing this, just buy me a sandwich or something and we’ll call it even.”

Beaming at him with his chin tucked on top of the divider, Ron pumps his fist. “Perfect. Okay, we’re leaving now, c’mon.” He grabs Harry by the shoulder, dragging him to his feet before beginning to noisily escort them both away from their desks.

“You’d think you’d let me choose when we go, since this is your apology to me, wouldn’t you?” Harry mumbles, scrambling to grab his jacket. Ron just thumps him on the back as a response, and Harry resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to be spending his free hour at an apology lunch with one of his best mates, who, quite frankly, has done much worse things to Harry in the past, both purposefully and accidentally, and no apology lunch was offered then.

It turns out that Ron wasn’t planning on letting Harry pick the location either, because he drags him straight past Harry’s usual deli and continues on for another two blocks. It’s a bit farther than he’d normally venture for lunch, but Ron isn’t really paying attention to his suggestions as they continue to pass by restaurant after restaurant. Just when Harry is beginning to think that this is step two in Ron’s evil plan to ruin his week, they come to a halt outside of a small brick building where a sidewalk sign reads _Nature’s Menu. Come on in and enjoy our naturally sourced food!_

To Harry, it basically reads, _blah, blah, blah, we’re healthy_. Truly, who cares? He definitely doesn’t think it sounds like a place he’d ever actively seek out. Come to think of it, it hardly seems like the type of place that Ron would be caught dead stepping foot in. When he looks at Ron questioningly, Ron just shrugs and says, “Luna recommended it to ‘Mione last week. Apparently she knows the owner. The chicken is good.” Harry can’t really argue with that, so he opens the door and follows Ron into the building.

The heat is welcomed, especially after their long walk. Letting Ron order for him, Harry finds a comfy looking booth to wait in. The line is sort of lengthy, and Harry frowns and pushes up his sleeve to check the time on his watch. He’s running over the fastest route back to the office in his head when he feels the cushion of the booth sink next to him, and he jolts, startled. Ron is still standing in the line, rocking back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Harry slowly turns his head to see what creep has decided to invade his personal space, opening his mouth to tell whoever it is to back off - he’s emotionally invested in an almost stranger, alright, mate? - when he comes face to face with Draco himself. Draco must notice the pissy look on his face, because he immediately scoots backwards, as if to stand back up again.

“No, no, you’re fine,” Harry hurries to say, and Draco sinks slowly back onto the seat beside him. “I, er, thought you were a stranger. Sorry,” Harry laughs, trying to look as apologetic as possible.

“Not to worry,” Draco nods. “I probably should’ve announced myself before I just sat down anyways,” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck, but his face remains unflappably calm.

“Really, it’s fine,” Harry dismisses the notion. “Er, how’s it going?” He shifts so that he has room to turn to face Draco without letting his legs take over Draco’s space. He, of course, wouldn’t have any problem with being that close, but they’re in public, and he isn’t sure who may be watching them, or how Draco would feel about it. He can practically still see Vernon scowling at the gay couple sitting across from them, the one time they actually bothered to take Harry out to dinner with them.

“Just grabbing something to eat,” Draco says, waving a reusable bag with some sort of sandwich wrapped up in it. “The meat selection here is marvellous.”

“I’ve heard,” Harry nods his head towards Ron, who for some reason is staring over at them with the widest eyes Harry has ever seen. Draco follows his gaze, noticing Ron looking at them like they’ve got six heads each..

“Who’s that?” He asks, seemingly bewildered by the way Ron is still staring unblinkingly at them.

“The reason all my work was deleted,” Harry deadpans. “He’s buying me lunch to make up for it, though.”

“How kind,” Draco muses, a touch of sarcasm edging his tone. “You manage to get that sorted out yet?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, it’s sorted. I was starting to think I’d be stuck in that cubicle forever,” Harry rolls his eyes. “Can you imagine that? Being stuck at Malfoy & Associates for life? I reckon that’d be hell,” he laughs.

Draco opens his mouth, eyes wide and looking a tad affronted. Harry is about to backpedal, and assure Draco that it’s okay if he likes working there, Harry does, too, when Ron crashes his way into the opposite side of the booth.

“I’m starved,” he says, drawing Harry’s attention away from the flutter of Draco’s eyelashes. Or not. Whatever. Ron then proceeds to freeze for a moment, as if remembering he’s in the presence of a total stranger, and sticks out his hand. “I’m-” he starts.

“A menace, so I’ve heard,” Draco cuts him off, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. Rising back up from the seat, he balances himself with a hand on Harry’s sturdy shoulder. “I’ll see you later?” He says, and - is he talking to Harry? Harry flushes, staring up at him, and yes, those are definitely Draco’s bright eyes focused intently on his own.

“Sure, yeah, I mean. Yes,” he rushes to reply, and then adds his most charming smile as a distraction from his awkwardness. Draco doesn’t seem to mind, though. He smiles slightly, his eyes crinkling as he nods. Harry is having trouble _breathing,_ that’s how fit this bloke is. Then, when he thinks the need to reach into his pocket and pull out his non-existent inhaler has passed, Draco’s hand that was resting on his shoulder starts sliding down his arm. Over his bicep, the curve of his elbow, until his fingertips are brushing lightly over the exposed skin of Harry’s forearm. Harry needs a goddamn oxygen mask.

The touch leaves as fast as it came, and Harry is left staring at the empty space where Draco was standing as he heads for the door. Harry is pretty sure if he watched him go, he would ascend to heaven. He can see the headlines now: _Customer Dies After Glimpse of World’s Finest Piece of Arse._ Maybe Nature’s Menu would dedicate booth number three to his memory.

“Uh, Harry,” Ron is saying, waving a hand in front of his face from where he’s been immobile for going on a minute. “You know who that-”

“Shut up, _please,”_ Harry complains, placing his hands over his ears.

“Blimey, fine,” Ron replies haughtily. “I won’t tell you then.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“Eat your sandwich.”

____________________________

 

They end up getting back to the office half an hour late - the quickest route back has been blocked with construction while they were eating, and there isn’t anywhere to actually walk around it. It isn’t much of a big deal, no one even notices them missing. But their tardiness does mean that Harry needs to stay later than usual to finish up some work that was approaching its deadline. He’s just shoving his things into his bag when he hears a voice pipe up.

“You always stay late?”

Harry wheels around, already smiling. It’s Draco. “No,” he laughs, “Just spicing things up a bit.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches. “Is that so?”

Blushing, Harry lifts his bag onto his shoulder. “Mhm,” he says noncommittally, not really sure what sort of response Draco is looking for here. He’s leaning casually against the beige wall, his charcoal suit stretching over his thighs where his legs are crossed. Harry feels a bit undressed in comparison, but he guesses that Draco is probably a little higher up on the scale of authority here than he is.

Seemingly satisfied with Harry’s non-answer, Draco just quirks his head in the direction of the exit, motioning for Harry to walk with him.

“Do _you_ always stay late?” Harry quips, when they’re halfway down the hallway and it looks like Draco isn’t planning on saying anything else.

“Sort of, yes,” Draco admits, glancing sideways at Harry. “I’m a bit overloaded with work sometimes.”

“S’too bad,” Harry sympathizes, and veers violently to the left, opening the door to the stairwell before Draco can suggest the lift. Draco conveniently doesn’t mention anything, and Harry keeps talking as they climb lower. “Can’t you push any of it on to someone else to do?”

Draco laughs loudly, like Harry’s made some good joke, which, whatever. Harry will take a handsome bloke laughing at his jokes any day, no matter if they were completely unintentional or not. “I suppose you’re right.”

They’re almost in the parking garage when Draco says, “Would you like to go get something to eat?”

It’s so sudden that Harry nearly stumbles. He pauses momentarily, collecting himself so he doesn’t seem like a complete lunatic. It is Friday, and this week has definitely been more stressful than usual. Plus, Draco is out of this world handsome, and Harry is going to need to get this whole Dating In London thing started before it’s too late. Not that he’s assuming Draco is asking as anything more than friends, but, hey. A man can dream.

“I’d like that,” he replies, an easy smile blossoming on his face.

Draco nods to himself. “Good, me too,” he plods forward, unlocking his car with a flick of a button. “Did you drive?”

“No,” Harry says. “I take the tube. Where are we going?” he says as an afterthought.

“That’s fine, you can ride with me. It’s probably easiest to do it that way anyways. You know Karl’s?” Draco asks. It’s kind of dark down in the garage, and Harry is having trouble making out some of Draco’s features. He hopes the restaurant has good lighting.

“Yes and no,” he sheepishly answers, once he’s remembered they’re supposed to be having an actual conversation, not a weird staring contest. Karl’s is in nearby, which he knows because he’s heard people at the office talk about it before. “Heard of it, but I’ve never been.”

“Oh,” Draco says, surprised. “You’ll like it, it’s casual. Quiet. I’ll drop you home after?”

Harry thinks for a moment. He really wants to spend time with Draco, but, he doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. Harry is sure now that Draco most definitely lives in Knightsbridge, where both Malfoy & Associates and Karl’s are located, and Harry lives in a tiny Wandsworth flat, completely in the opposite direction.

He says as much. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience, I’m in Wandsworth, I can take the tube home after we eat.”

Snorting, Draco rolls his eyes, already walking over to his car. “Don’t be stupid. Come on, get in.”

Harry can’t really argue with that tone. Even if he wanted to, Draco is now in the driver's seat, staring at him imploringly, eyes darting to the passenger side of the vehicle. Feigning exasperation - _play it cool, Harry -_ he climbs in, dumping his things on the floor by his feet. The car is already started, and Harry’s ass is becoming acquainted with the wonder of heated seats. The Dursleys used to have heated seats in their car, only up front though, and Harry was never allowed to sit in them, even when he was the only passenger.

Draco reaches over, flipping on the sound system. Harry is expecting indie rock, maybe even some depressing soul-searching stuff. Instead, the soft sound of an instrumental trickles serenely from the speakers. What is this? Harry isn’t sure.

“What is this?” He asks, laughing good naturedly.

“Pachelbel’s Canon,” Draco replies, face stony.

 _What the hell,_ Harry mouths to himself, immediately fussing with some buttons until the speakers are playing something more to his liking.

“What is _this?”_ Draco gripes.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Spice Girls,” Harry says, and he glances over at Draco, who is doing a spectacularly awful job at pretending he’s angry. Harry can see the smile he’s fighting to keep down.

“This is the one and only time I’m going to let you get away with switching the music,” he says gruffly, amusement evident in his voice.

“Alright, big guy,” Harry fires back, settling back in his seat, smile stretched so wide his face feels like it’s going to crack. He thinks Draco is going to start driving now, but he leans forward, looking around at Harry.

“Seatbelt,” he says firmly.

“What?” Harry says, confused.

“Put your seatbelt on. I’m not leaving until it’s on.”

Harry isn’t sure why being told to put on a seatbelt is making his stomach flip around like this, but he’s not complaining. “Right,” he says, fastening the belt over his chest, clipping it in. “All good.”

“Good,” Draco says again, and then peels off onto the street.

About halfway to Karl’s, Harry begins wondering if the reason Draco was so adamant about the seatbelt was out some instilled safety principle, or more so because he knew that he drives like a _fucking maniac_ . By the time they’ve reached the parking lot in one piece, Harry’s fists are clenched against his thighs, fingers white from squeezing into the meat of his leg whenever Draco maniacally swerved between lanes or - _bloody hell,_ Harry thought he was going to _die_ \- turned right at a red light.

Draco glances over at him after he’s parked in the nearly empty lot. His voice is filled with concern when he asks, “Shit, are you okay?”

Harry is pretty sure his face has been frozen in an expression of mild terror ever since Draco nearly crashed into a stop sign. “Who the _fuck_ let you get your driver’s license?” He demands, finally loosening his fingers from his khakis. “Did you have some kind of contact at the DMV?”

“That bad?” Draco asks, having the decency to look at least semi-guilty.

“I might have to puke before we eat,” Harry confirms, unsnapping his seatbelt.

“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic,” Draco laughs as he hops out of the car and onto the pavement.

“Yeah, well. Next time I’m driving, and you’re gonna at least pretend to learn the rules of the road.”

It may be intended as an insult, but Draco lights up. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, then proceeds to hold the door of the restaurant open for Harry to walk in. It’s almost glaringly bright compared to the darkness of the parking garage and the dim autumn evening, and Harry squints as he makes his way inside, Draco closely on his heel. It’s almost empty there, with the exception of one tired looking old man, who’s tucked into the far corner of a table, sipping on a bottle of coke. It’s more of a diner than a restaurant, Harry thinks to himself, and Draco leads him to a window booth with worn red seats.

“Do you even have a driver’s license?” Draco asks abruptly when they reach the table. Harry blushes, and shakes his head. “I’m retracting the offer of you driving, then. If anyone is going to get us killed in a fiery collision, it’s going to be me.”

Harry chokes a bit, amused at Draco’s dark humor. “I’ll hold you to that,” Harry echoes kiddingly, and Draco looks back at him, eyes bright and crinkled happily.

“What are you going to get?” Draco asks him, as he sits down directly across from Harry, shrugging his coat off.

“Dunno,” Harry says. “Is there a menu?” He looks around, but he can’t see a waitress, nor can he detect any movement from the window of the kitchen.

“Sort of? I can just tell you what they have,” Draco says, resting his elbows on the table.

“What, you’re some kind of dedicated regular?” Harry asks him, resting his chin on his hand. The chair is definitely more comfortable than the worn leather would suggest, and Harry sinks back further so that he can relax his back after a long day of bending over his laptop.

“Something like that,” says Draco drily, then raises an eyebrow when Harry says no more. “Want me to tell you the options?”

“Nah,” he replies easily. “They’ve got burgers?”

“Of course.”

“Just checking, arsehole. I’ll have one of those.” Just as he finishes his sentence, a waitress sidles up to their table, a tired but friendly smile on her face.

“What can I get for you two?”

Harry rattles off his order, asking for extra pickles on his burger. Draco orders a burger, too, and then says “Can we get two strawberry milkshakes as well?”

“You got it,” the waitress says sweetly, before turning on her heel and walking back into the kitchen.

“You didn’t even ask if I like strawberry,” Harry deadpans, mostly kidding.

“You’ll like it,” Draco shoots back sincerely.

Harry just grins and shrugs. He actually _does_ like strawberry, but teasing Draco is proving to be rather fun.

They fall into easy conversation while they’re waiting for their food to arrive. Draco tells Harry briefly about the first time he got lost in London, his attempt to learn Italian in college, and how much he loves animals. Harry finds himself smiling like a love-struck goon at everything Draco says. His stupid, posh voice is like a goddamn lullaby. He’d probably actually be really good at narrating nature documentaries or some shit like that, Harry thinks.

In turn, Harry tells him briefly about the one and only time he’d tried online dating, his favourite flavours of tea, in order, and the real reason why he takes the stairs at work.

“Wait, truly?” Draco asks, slurping back a mouthful of his milkshake. He was right - Harry loves it, and is totally debating on ordering a second one to take home with him.

“Yeah,” Harry says, crossing his arms across his chest. “It’s not claustrophobia,” he lies. “I just don’t like thinking about being in a metal box hanging by a thread a hundred feet above concrete.” _Or the feeling of walls folding in on me until the only thing I can feel is my chest caving in,_ Harry thinks.

“I wouldn’t call it a thread,” Draco says considering. “It’s actually more of a metal cable, they’re quite strong. I can guarantee you the ones at work are safe.”

“Still, not for me,” Harry says, shoving a fry into his mouth. Not even Draco’s reassurances will convince him to climb into that death trap. Besides, how would Draco even know about the reliability of Malfoy’s lift cables? He’s just trying to be nice, which Harry appreciates, but still. “The last thing I need is to plunge to my death at work.”

Draco just shrugs and leaves it at that, instead focusing on the monster burger that he and Harry both have in front of them.

“This better be good,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows at Draco.

“You won’t be disappointed,” replies Draco confidently.

Harry is stuffed when the bill comes around, which he speedily grabs before Draco can get the chance to pull out his wallet.

“My treat,” he says, handing a twenty and a five to the waitress, who happily walks away with their empty plates in hand.

“We could’ve split that,” Draco says, looking disappointed in himself for not hauling out his wallet fast enough.

“You’re driving, consider this my repayment,” Harry suggests, resting his cheek on his hand, using his finger to draw swirls on the table from the condensation that had dripped from his milkshake. “Though, maybe I should charge you a safe delivery fee so you feel more inclined to bring me back in one piece.”

“Very funny,” Draco says, laughing. “Next time, it’s on me.” The bell of the diner clatters noisily as a group of teenagers push themselves over the threshold and into the booth across the aisle from Harry and Draco. Draco stands up and rolls his eyes when one of the young boys hollers something about onion rings being the John Lennon of diner food.

He hovers next to Harry’s side of the table, waiting for Harry to join him so that they can leave.

“I don’t think I can get up, I’m so full,” Harry complains jokingly, looking up at Draco as he swings his legs so that they’re no longer trapped beneath the table.

“Unbelievable,” Draco mutters, amused, before promptly sticking his hands underneath Harry’s arms and lifting him straight up out of the seat until he’s in a standing position.

Momentarily shocked into silence, Harry’s mouth hangs open. He wasn’t expecting that, and he finds himself ridiculously pleased at the welcome touch of Draco’s hands on his body. “My hero,” Harry remarks once he’s found his voice, making Draco rolls his eyes. He cuffs Harry’s shoulder, and ushers him back outside into the brisk air of the night.

Draco must’ve taken Harry’s quips about his driving abilities more seriously than he had originally let on, because on the drive back to Wandsworth, Draco is driving significantly slower than he was on their way to Karl’s. That being said, Harry still scrunches his eyes closed and suppresses a shriek when Draco slams on the brakes to avoid running a red light.

Sheepishly, Draco turns to him as they wait for the light to turn green. “Progress?”

Harry laughs.

____________________________

 

When Harry lies down in his bed later that same night, he has a smile on his face, and a new contact in his phone.

_Draco._

____________________________

 

By lunchtime on Saturday, Harry finds himself taking a long walk to Nature’s Menu. The chicken sandwich he had there for lunch _was_ to die for, and his stomach is grumbling just thinking about getting his hands on one again. He could’ve taken the tube the tube the whole way, but he decided to get off a couple stops early and walk for a bit. It’s taking longer, but the sun is shining and it feels heavenly on Harry’s face. The whole world seems lighter, brighter, and happier for some reason. Harry thinks it’s likely due to the fact that he has Draco’s phone number burning a hole in his jeans pocket.

How long is he supposed to wait to text Draco? A day? Two? Usually, Harry doesn’t let his decisions be governed by the ridiculous time specific standards that everyone seems to abide by when texting potential boyfriends, but, he wants to do this _right._ But then again, if Draco really does like him, he’s gonna have to get used to Harry’s triple-texts, lack of punctuation and all.  

When he reaches the front of the line, he thinks he recognizes the cashier from somewhere. He’s tall and very handsome, he notes absently.

“Hey. What can I get you?” He asks, before Harry has a chance to embarrass himself by blurting out a question about whether he’s seen the man in a magazine before.

“The breaded chicken breast on whole grain, please?” Harry asks, shuffling down the line to the pick up area once he’s handed over his money. He sways from foot to foot as he watches the bloke make his sandwich.

Before he can stop himself, he swiftly takes his phone out of his pocket so that he can take a quick, sneaky picture of the Magazine Sandwich Man to send to Hermione, who, despite declarations that magazines full of impossibly beautiful people were mindless reads, has multiple issues tucked away on a shelf on her expansive bookcase. Perhaps she’ll know where Harry recognizes him from. He just snaps the photo when a strong hand comes down and clasps his shoulder.

“ _Ah!”_ Harry gasps. He knows it’s a theatrical reaction, but he was feeling so on edge from the adrenaline of taking a stranger’s photo that he can’t contain his fright at apparently being noticed.

“I didn’t think our date went that badly.”

_Shit._

_“_ Christ, Draco. You’re everywhere,” Harry breathes out, clutching his chest and trying to mentally will his cheeks to stop burning. And - wait. “Our _date_?” Harry blurts.

Harry can see the slow freezing of Draco’s expression. His eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said, and his hand shoots up to fiddle with his hair, something that Harry’s noticed him do a couple times when he became seemingly shy.

“Uh,” Draco says, stammering for the first time since Harry’s met him. “I didn’t – you know what, yes, our date. But if you want it to not be a date, we can also move on and act as though this conversation didn’t happen,” Draco says, voice becoming steadier as he continues speaking, but Harry can see the nervousness in his eyes.

Is Harry _dreaming_? No one as sweet and handsome as Draco has ever been remotely interested in him romantically. People usually don’t stick around for very long once they really get to know him, and especially once they realize just how hard it is for him to articulate anything about his feelings. Terry, Harry’s last and only boyfriend, had hated that about him - Harry refused to open up, and anytime a conversation became even remotely emotional, Harry would clam up and withdraw from the discussion. Draco has already watched Harry dip chips in a strawberry milkshake and he’s still interested, which Harry counts as a positive sign.

“I would like that, if we considered it a date,” Harry confesses, unable to keep a smile from blooming across his face.

“Good,” Draco sighs in relief, mirroring Harry’s joyful expression. Harry opens his mouth to say something about being glad they were on the same page when a monotonous voice breaks his reverie.

“Breaded chicken on whole grain.”

“Seriously, Blaise?” says Draco, rolling his eyes and turning back to the presumed model.

“Tell your friend to stop taking pictures of me without my consent and I won’t interrupt any more … moments,” Blaise says challengingly. Alright, clearly these two are on at least semi-friendly terms if they’re going back and forth like this. Harry hopes Draco doesn’t think he’s a weirdo who’s on a mission to take photos of his friends or something equally strange.

“That’s fair,” says Draco, appeased. He grabs Harry’s sandwich and motions for Harry to follow him to the same booth as Harry was in yesterday. Does this mean that booth number three is like, their booth? _Relax, you git,_ Harry reminds himself.

“We really have to stop meeting up at restaurants, accidentally or not,” Harry says as they sit down, “Or I’m gonna be broke and fat.”

Draco snorts, passing Harry his plate. “Before we start talking about our completely official date, can I ask why you were taking pictures of Blaise? One entrepreneur not good enough for you?”

Harry should’ve maybe waited to take a bite of his sandwich, because he immediately chokes at Draco’s question. He isn’t sure what Draco means by entrepreneur, but that train of thought is overridden by him not being able to breathe. Coughing, he looks around frantically for something to wash it down, but he didn’t order a drink, so all he can do is cover his mouth and ride it out.

Through his watering eyes, he can see that Draco has left the table. Great. Chips in strawberry milkshakes was one thing, but taking pictures of Draco’s friend and choking on a chicken sandwich were apparently the last straw in this short lived relationship. Just about as Harry is about to accept the fact that he’s going to die choking on a piece of chicken after a potential boyfriend abandoned him, Draco is back by his side, and he’s sliding a tall glass of water under Harry’s nose.

Oh. Well, okay then.

Once he’s managed to control his coughing to a point where also choking on the water isn’t a possibility, Harry gratefully takes a gulp, letting the coolness soothe his throat.

“Thanks,” he rasps eventually, looking at Draco sheepishly. Draco’s mouth twitches sweetly, and he lets out a sigh.

“You have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you?” He says, returning to his original seat on the other side of the booth.

“It’s all accidental, I promise,” Harry says earnestly, taking another sip of his water. When he opens his mouth again to continue, he lowers his voice so Blaise can’t hear him. “And, um, about your friend. I thought I recognized him from somewhere?” Draco nods in confirmation, urging Harry to go on. “Anyways, is he a model? I was going to send it, the photo, to my friend to see if she recognized him, it just bothers me not knowing why something reminds me of something else. If that makes any sense at all. And the longer I talk the creepier I sound, so I’m just going to go ahead and shut up now, um. So. That’s why,” Harry trails off lamely.

“It’s really fine,” Draco replies, looking amused. “Besides, Blaise loves the attention.”

“Oh, good,” says Harry, relieved.  “I really wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable, honest. I’m gonna delete that now, actually. I wasn’t like, uh- I just. Listen. I’d rather have a picture of you – wait, no, that’s not – fuck,” Harry sighs, burying his flaming face in his hands.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Draco laughs quietly, ducking his head and looking up at Harry through his hair. Now _that_ is hot.

“I, yeah,” Harry shrugs, taking another sip of the cool water Draco brought him, hoping it’ll quell the rampant embarrassment rushing through him. Just when he thinks he’s regained his composure, Draco sends him a kind smile, more carefree than any he’s shown Harry before.

“So,” Harry says, dragging out the word once he’s started speaking because he realizes he has nothing planned to say. Luckily for him, Draco opens his mouth to speak at exactly the same time.

“I was-”

Harry snorts into his hand, eyes crinkling in amusement as Draco stutters and flushes at their badly timed attempt at conversation.

“You go first,” Harry says, waving his hand in a placating manner. “I didn’t really have anything to say, anyways,” he insists. It’ll give him some time to get his thoughts in check, anyways. Draco rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation at his admission, and folds his hands together on the tabletop. His hands are big, strong, but his fingers are slim and they move in an almost delicate manner. The fine blond hairs tapering off at the end of his wrist are so light that they’re only visible in the path of the beaming sunlight streaming through the windows and into the booth. Harry bets that Draco would be the best hand holder.

“Alright,” Draco laughs, a small sound that Harry promptly files away. “Since we’ve clearly agreed that too many of our interactions have revolved around food, would you like to go out somewhere with me this week? No food involved, promise.”

Harry is sure his face is going to crack if he smiles any harder. It turns out his plan to convince Draco that he’s a viable dating option has taken off flawlessly, with hardly any work on his own part.

“That’d be nice,” Harry answers, taking a gulp of water after his voice nearly cracks. “Though I’ll admit, food is always a good idea.”

“I’m sure we can squeeze in a coffee or something once we’re done,” Draco says. “Does a walk sound okay? I know they’re having a lantern festival in a park near here this coming weekend, we could go there.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees readily. He’s never been to a lantern festival before, and it definitely sounds like a good non-eating date plan. _Which_ means that he already has one date with Draco under his belt, plus two coincidental meetings at Draco’s friend’s sandwich shop, _plus_ their upcoming date. That’s some pretty impressive progress in a short time period, if Harry’s counting.

Which he definitely is.

____________________________

Harry practically runs home. He got a little distracted talking to Draco at Nature’s Menu, and in his excitement about their date, he’d completely forgotten that Hermione was supposed to be meeting him at his flat at three o’clock so he could help her decide on a colour scheme and decorations for her new place with Ron. According to Hermione, although Ron would be more than happy to help, his opinions on interior design are so bloody awful she’d rather just keep him informed rather than have him as an active participant. Harry’s not sure what’s lead her to believe him to be any more well suited for the job than Ron, but he knows better than to start complaining about it.

He sprints up twelve flights of stairs to his humble abode, only to find that Hermione has already let herself in using her spare key. She’s sprawled out on his comfy sofa - possibly his most expensive indulgence since he’s moved - with Hedwig on her lap and a colour-coded binder of printed Pinterest ideas on the coffee table.

“Hello, slowpoke,” Hermione greets, smiling. Hedwig purrs contently from where she’s curled up with her head on Hermione’s thigh. She’s always preferred Hermione to Ron, something Harry will never admit out loud for fear of hurting Ron’s feelings. Harry has always been Hedwig’s favourite, though. She loves curling up next to him at the end of the day just as much as Harry does.

“Yeah, yeah. Save the speed quips for another day. Guess who I just ran into?” Harry calls out as he bustles into his kitchen to grab a bottle of water from his fridge, awaiting Hermione’s response. When thirty seconds go by with no reply, he pokes his head back out into the living room. “Hermione?” he prompts.

Putting her phone down, Hermione smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, Harry. That was just Ron. I was listening. I’d say you ran into - what have you been calling him? The golden haired man of your dreams?”

“Alright, I definitely have never called him that,” Harry says while he runs a hand over his face in an attempt to hide his embarrassed grin, nodding to confirm that Hermione’s guess was correct.

“And he hasn’t gotten sick of you yet, impressive.” Ron’s sense of humor is rubbing off on her, Harry thinks.

“Shut up,” Harry shoots back good naturedly. “I’ll have you know, he called our supper last night a _date,_ and he invited me to that lantern festival in Battersea Park next weekend.”

At this, Hermione sits up straight, eyes shining. For all her teasing, she lights up like a Christmas tree whenever Harry mentions anything about his life going positively. “Harry!” she shrieks, hands flying in the air as she reaches out to pull him down into a warm embrace.

“That’s so exciting. Yes, yes, yes. You’re going to have the _best_ time.”

“Here’s hoping,” Harry laughs, raising his water bottle in a toast. Hermione smiles sweetly back at him, clinking the bottle with her neon pink highlighter. They burst into a fit of silly giggles until Hedwig meows pitifully, demanding belly rubs.

____________________________

 

The week passes in a flurry of work, texts with Draco, and a few shared walks to the parking garage at the end of the day before they part ways. Draco is kind, Harry learns, as he listens to Draco speak about the charities he volunteers with. He’s funny, too, in a very sharp-tongued way. The banter between them is refreshing, and fun. Harry’s absolutely over the moon about how well everything’s been going thus far, and anytime he’s with Draco, his heart soars to new heights, and his face hurts from smiling. He can tell Draco enjoys his company, too, even though he still tries to maintain a rather serious facade around the office. But, his eyes are always warm, and the smiles that he gives Harry are so genuine that they’re near devastating. _Draco_ is devastating. From his blond hair to his eccentric taste in music, to the tiny quips he freely throws out, Harry is head over heels, ridiculously infatuated with him.   

It’s Harry who suggests that they meet at the festival rather than carpooling. He thinks he’ll enjoy himself better if he isn’t struggling with motion sickness.

The sky is mostly dark, only slivers of deep magenta and vibrant orange bleeding through the heavy blue of the night sky near the horizon. With it being so close to December and a blustery winter, Harry is dressed accordingly with a puffy vest over his pullover, and a matching pair of red knitted gloves and a hat that Mrs. Weasley gave him last Christmas.

He’s swaying a bit from foot to foot, straining his neck over the crowd in an attempt to find Draco. They agreed to meet by the Southwest entrance at seven o’clock, but Harry, in the opposite of Harry Potter fashion, arrived early just to make sure he didn’t show up late to their first official date like a total arsehole. His phone screen is glaringly bright against the darkness of the night, and it reads _6:57_.

Just as he’s about to put his phone back in his pocket, his screen lights up with a text.

_Draco_

> Hey, I see you. About to fight my way through the crowd, wish me luck.

_Harry Potter_  

> Good luck! I have faith in you :P

_Draco_  

> :D

There is something inexplicably delightful about Draco using emojis, and Harry is about to text back something disarmingly witty when Draco suddenly appears from the crowd in front of him, smile plastered across his face, eyes crescents of joy. He looks beautiful, as always, but the best part is that he’s wearing earmuffs. Honestly, earmuffs! Harry’s never had the guts to try and pull off the earmuff look, he thinks he’d look too much like an overgrown Furby. But Draco makes it work flawlessly, his blond hair windswept and perfect.

“Hey,” Draco says, waving. The cool air has brought a pale blush to Draco’s pale skin, and Harry is only ninety-six percent mesmerized by the beauty before him. He takes the remaining four percent of his brain power to swiftly wrap Draco up in a quick hug, reveling in the feeling of their bodies pressed against one another, if only for a moment. He’s surprised with himself for executing the hug so adeptly, and quite frankly shocked that he even initiated a hug in the first place. When they pull apart they stand grinning at each other momentarily.

“So, er, you wanna head up this way? That’s where most of the lights are going to be,” Harry suggests, gesturing to the path ahead of them that runs parallel to the river.

“Sure, sounds good to me,” Draco says, bumping their shoulders together. There’s quite a crowd of people around, which isn’t unusual, but Harry leans in closer to Draco so that their arms brush when they walk, giving him a steady presence at his side.

The lanterns are already lit, all shapes, sizes, and colours placed sporadically across the banks and dangling on ropes between trees. The glow they emit is enchanting and warm, and the atmosphere is incredibly calm and delightful. When Draco turns his head to smile at Harry, his face is bathed in golden light, his hair lit up from behind magically. He looks like a literal angel, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up five minutes from now to find out that this entire week has been a dream.

Chatter fills up the silence around them, and there’s a big St. Bernard a few metres away who barks powerfully before flopping down on the grass with his tongue hanging out, looking as happy as can be to be an inconvenience to his owner. Harry laughs as he points this out to Draco, who dives into a cute story about a puppy he had as a little boy.

They make their way up the pathway, marveling at the talent that went into the creation of all of these lanterns. So far Harry’s favourite has been a stack of footballs, constructed so that they were balanced haphazardly on top of one another. Draco, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying the more abstract lanterns.

“Look,” Harry says suddenly, unthinkingly grabbing Draco’s hand in his own to get his attention. “It’s the One Ring.”

It’s actually quite an impressive replica, for a papier-mache lantern, with the inscription glowing bright compared to the rest of it. Harry smiles, pleased by it.

“It’s the what?” Draco asks, perplexed.

“One Ring to rule them all,” Harry clarifies. When Draco remains quiet, he pauses. “Wait, have you not read any Lord of the Rings novels? Or seen the movies, even?”

“Uh, no,” Draco says, bringing a hand up to the nape of his neck and ducking his head. “I take it that this is a big offense to you,” he jokes, tightening his grip on Harry’s hand minutely. And - _shit_. Harry didn’t even realize that he had latched onto Draco like this. He’s not - hand holding, especially in public, isn’t exactly something he makes a habit of. He can almost hear Uncle Vernon’s snarl. He looks around, briefly, but the crowd continues to dawdle along under the soft light of the lanterns, paying he and Draco no mind. It’s nice, Harry tells himself, taking a calming breath. It’s been a long time since he’s even wanted to hold someone’s hand, and Draco’s grip is remarkably comforting. Even through the fabric of their mittens, Harry can feel the heat radiating from Draco’s palm. When Harry still hasn’t responded, Draco squeezes gently, spurring Harry’s delighted and nervous brain into action.

“Yes, but only because it’s a rite of passage. Don’t worry, though, we can watch them together, if you’d like,” Harry says while blushing as the roll of nerves in his stomach settles into something more manageable.

“Count me in,” says Draco, with a look of determination in his eyes.

“Don’t look so much like you’re preparing to go into battle,” Harry remarks, enjoying the look on Draco’s face. “It’s good, I really do promise.” Draco’s mouth twitches in what Harry’s learned to classify as a sign of amusement.  

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, face still hilariously solemn.  

Now that they’ve reached the edge of the lake, the majority of their fellow festival-goers are choosing to keep walking up the trail where more lanterns are strewn about the grounds. Harry is about to follow them, when a tug from Draco has him veering off course and flush to Draco’s side.

“Sorry,” Harry says, detaching himself from the sturdiness of Draco’s chest. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to spend a night with Draco in his bed. Not in the sexy way, though he’d like that a lot, too, but just to sleep. With Draco’s chest as his pillow and a soft hand in his hair, Harry feels as though he’d have the sleep of a lifetime.

“Just can’t resist me?” Draco says, complete poker-face and all. When Harry stutters awkwardly as he’s pulled away from his daydream, Draco seems to take pity on him. “I didn’t mean to pull you over so hard. I just wanted to show you something,” he says, gesturing up the tinier path they were now walking on. It’s a lot narrower and darker than the one they were on before, but Harry feels safe and content to have more alone time with just Draco, even though the strangers weren’t truly bothering them to begin with.

“Alright,” Harry agrees readily.

The light from the main trail of lanterns is still partially visible through the trees, a dull cloud of light filtering across the space but not invading it completely. There are a few lanterns on this path, too. Smaller ones, not quite as large or impressive as the ones they saw before, but there’s something quaint and charming about them that Harry enjoys more.

They continue up the path silently, the only sounds being the satisfying crunch of newly fallen leaves under their feet and the faint echoing of conversation from down the hill. As the path curves again, they find themselves in front of a staircase, surrounded on either side by a thick wall of trees, some of which are home to tiny, dangling lanterns. The cascades of colour are the only thing providing visibility to the stone steps, puddles of pinks and orange reflecting on the rock.

“Race you to the top?” Harry suggests, feeling lighter than he has in months.

“You’re on,” Draco laughs, and promptly starts running up the stairs, Harry a step behind him as they climb.

He was taken aback slightly by the immediate response, he wasn’t expecting Draco to agree to a foolish game so readily. He trails slightly behind Draco, picking up speed in hope of beating him to the top. It’s not a steep climb, and it’s shorter than Harry expected it to be, leaving him screeching to a halt and colliding weightily against Draco’s back with a thud. Laughing breathlessly, he spins Draco around so that they’re face to face again.

“Hey-,” Harry starts to tell Draco off for his head start but he gets distracted by how soft Draco’s lips look, and the shimmer of violet that sweeps across his face as the wind blows the lanterns in the trees.

“Hey, what?” Draco urges, his voice quiet, their warm breath mingling in the increasingly smaller space between them.

“Nothing,” Harry whispers, before tilting forward and capturing Draco’s lips with his own. His own heart beating wildly, Harry brings a gloved hand to rest upon Draco’s chest, the other cupping Draco’s stubbly cheek. His lips are just as soft as Harry thought they’d be, his hands ever tender on Harry’s waist as he draws him in closer. If this is heaven, Harry gets the appeal. Draco’s mouth is hot on his, and his fingers have begun massaging his side softly, setting Harry’s heart ablaze and his head into a frenzy of feelings as he tentatively parts his lips to allow Draco to deepen the kiss.

The cool fall air seems heavier, and Harry can hear Draco’s breath hitching as they pull apart, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths. Draco wipes it away hastily, his blush deepening into a rosy glow. This close, Draco’s eyes are nothing short of magical. Bright, lively, gorgeous, and full of emotion. They’re intense eyes, and having them focused solely on him is outright overwhelming for Harry, but he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away. He hopes he looks at least half as handsome to Draco as Draco does to him. Separating slightly so that their noses were no longer brushing, Draco smiles affectionately down at him, and Harry dares to hope that whatever this thing between them is will last.

“I-” Draco begins, cutting himself off only to begin smiling once more, shaking his head in what appears to be disbelief.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees softly, turning so that he can rest his head on Draco’s shoulder, blissfully watching the glimmer of the lanterns as they scatter light across the trees surrounding them, Draco sturdy and humming quietly at his side.  

____________________________

Sunday morning arrives, and Harry wakes up with a permanent smile on his face. After their kiss, they stayed in their secret alcove for a while longer, content to sit in near silence, save the occasional laugh or hushed whisper. He was reluctant to let go of Draco’s hand, and he thinks that Draco felt the same, given that he kept his palm pressed firmly against Harry’s until Harry had escorted him to his car, just about a block away from the Underground.

“Bye,” Draco had said, and after one of his disarming smiles and a chaste kiss on the cheek, he ducks into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb. His tires screech and Harry rolls his eyes good naturedly.

Still blushing, he made his way the tube, and then into his warm bed, too exhausted from the exhilaration of finally kissing Draco to even answer Hermione’s numerous texts questioning him about his evening.

Turning over in his bed, he reaches blindly for his phone on the night table, almost dropping it as he fumbles with sleepy fingers. He squints at the screen, the light almost blinding in his still dark bedroom. It’s just past eight, which is criminally early to be up on a Sunday, but Harry’s brain is already racing just thinking about the previous night spent in a colourful daze with Draco. Besides, Hermione and her two voicemails, five texts, and eight snapchats probably deserve to get some answers.

Clicking on her contact, Harry initiates a call, knowing full well that Hermione will already be up and started her day.

On the second ring, she answers. “Harry!” Her voice is cheery, and very much awake.

“Hermione,” Harry mimics, though his voice is slightly scratchier and definitely not as chipper. “Thought I’d do what any best friend should do and keep you updated on my love life,” he jokes, his sheets rustling around him as he pushes himself up into a sitting position in bed.

“A true best friend would’ve answered my texts after his date,” Hermione chastises jokingly.

“Yeah, well your best friend was too damn happy to even articulate any thoughts,” Harry says, bracing himself for Hermione’s upcoming squeal by pulling the phone away from his ear. Sure enough, a muffled scream rings out seconds later.

“ … -nd you’re serious, Harry, right? It went well?” she’s asking when he finally brings the phone back to his ear.

“Really bloody well,” Harry confesses, blushing while settling back against his mountain of pillows to fill her in on the not so scandalous details.

It’s raining, which is typical for a Sunday, and even more typical for an autumn Sunday, so Harry finds himself puttering around his flat, folding laundry and making note of which foods he needs to stock up on during his grocery run later that evening. Hedwig follows him around like a shadow the whole time, twining herself between his legs as he walks from his couch to his laundry nook,  and sitting impishly on the kitchen counter while tries to find something to eat in his near empty cupboards. He really shouldn’t be so indulgent of some of her furniture climbing habits, but she’s hard to say no to, and she’s also really fucking sneaky when she wants to be, so it’s not really worth his trouble.

It’s only four o’clock when he finishes tidying and decides to get out of the house for a bit, so he slips on his warmest rain jacket and his scuffed up sneakers as he bumbles out of his flat, running back in to grab an umbrella. It’s only a five minute walk to the nearest tube station, but he is not in the mood to be dripping rainwater over the seats or throughout the grocery store. It’s a boring trip, and he hates being jostled between the crowds of strangers while boarding, but it keeps his mind busy from replaying last night’s events over and over again in his head.

 

He doesn’t actually do much grocery shopping. It’s only him in his flat, and he’s been so busy and exhausted lately that eating has taken a bit of a back seat. He’s tried to keep up with his meals, but ignoring a growling stomach is something he’d gotten used to during his childhood, and old habits die hard.

Wandering around the store with a basket in his hand, he picks up some necessities. Milk, food for Hedwig, bread, eggs, a few frozen dinners. An apple, orange juice, butter. That’ll do the trick for the next while.

He’s still feeling the chill of the damp evening when he gets back inside of his cozy flat, so he changes into a pair of flannel pajama pants and his old U of S jumper, which is nearing the end of its days.

Cuddling up on his couch, with Hedwig sleeping contently at his side, Harry flicks on his television and navigates through the selection of cartoons on Netflix, eventually deciding on Steven Universe. He’s more than halfway through a fifth episode when his phone vibrates, nearly slipping from the couch onto the floor. Deftly, Harry grabs it, opening his new message.

 _Draco_  

> I’ve already watched the first Lord of the Flies movie today and it might be too early to say I’m obsessed but I think I am?

_Harry Potter_  

> Oh my god. It’s Lord of the RINGS. and you were supposed to wait so we could watch together! This is betrayal, Draco

_Draco_

> I’m sorry! We can do a marathon thing this coming weekend so I can redeem myself to you. :P

_Harry Potter_

> Yeah I suppose that works too :) :) :)

_Draco_   

> It’s a date.

____________________________

 

Monday turns out to be a typical, boring day at the office. Harry spends half of it staring longingly out the window across from his desk, watching the rain pour down the glass, blurring the view and making the lights from buildings across the street look smudged and distorted.

An obnoxiously bright blue light from passing emergency vehicles sweeps through the room as the faint sound of sirens comes up from the street below, and for a moment the office is swathed in a muddle of colours, and Harry wants to kick himself when he immediately thinks of Draco and their night in the park.

He pulls his phone from where it’s tucked away in his bag on the floor, opening his conversation with Draco from last night. Before he can stop himself, he sends off a text.

_Harry Potter_

> Lunch today?

It’s been over an hour without response, but Harry doesn’t let that bother him. Draco is at work, just like he is, so he can hardly expect him to be glued to his phone. Harry, just for the record, thinks the notion of having to be constantly available through text is ridiculous and downright exhausting. He waits to answer texts when he’s not in the mood, so he hardly cares that Draco may be doing the same.

He instead spends his lunch break with Luna, helping her put up Christmas decorations all around the building. Harry doesn’t know how Luna does it, but according to his other coworkers who’ve been here longer, Luna shows up for every holiday with decorations for the office. And not just tacky, dollar store ones either. These are genuinely gorgeous, magical and unique and absolutely mesmerizing. Visitors, clients, and employees alike are enthralled, and it helps to boost excitement around the office. Harry loves Luna for it, and Luna just shrugs with a pleased smile, and insists that it’s her absolute pleasure. As much of an enigma she can be, Luna is one of the most well regarded employees at Malfoy & Associates, and an incredible friend to boot.

Harry’s lost in peaceful thought about the magic that is Christmas and all the joys it brings with it. He lets a sense of relaxation settle over him as he works. That doesn’t stop him from freaking out when Ron lunges for Harry’s phone after Draco texts him back, a few minutes after two o’clock.

Harry had blushed when the notification popped up on his screen, a text from Draco apologizing about the late answer, and explaining that he’s in meetings all day. He’d replied back almost immediately, reassuring Draco that it was completely fine. Draco had texted back a smiling cat in response, and an invitation to lunch on Friday. He could see Ron looking intrigued, surely curious about all of the involuntary smiling Harry was doing. So Harry was hardly surprised that, as soon as he placed his phone back on his desk, Ron swiftly pulled it over towards himself.

“Ron, no!” Harry hisses, trying to snatch it away from Ron’s sneaky hands. Harry knows that Ron knows his passcode, and he also knows that he’s definitely reading Draco’s text right now, especially judging by his raised eyebrow and judgmental glare.

“Who’s this you’re texting?” he asks, waving Harry’s phone around carelessly.

“Can you _read_?” Harry huffs, leaning back in his seat, knowing full well that Ron won’t hand the phone over until he wants to. “The contact name is clearly visible.”

When Ron fails to reply, Harry continues. “Draco. You met him the other day at the diner, remember?”

 _Draco,_ Ron mouths, lips drawn. “That’s his name, is it?.” And then, “There are only senior management meetings today,” he tacks on like an afterthought, but he says it with a weight that Harry can’t quite place.

“Mind your business, Ron, please,” Harry implores, a sudden headache forming at his temples.  

“Tetchy,” Ron mutters, rolling his eyes and slowly handing Harry’s phone back. Harry decides not to further the conversation, turning back to his work. He’s a few emails deep when Ron says, quietly, “Be careful, Harry.”

Too confused, Harry just shakes his head, and lets his mountain of work take his mind off of whatever Ron thinks is going on.

Harry goes home that night thinking about what Ron said. Be careful because Draco is a bloke? Be careful because Harry falls too fast and too hard? Be careful because maybe Draco is as wretched as Terry turned out to be? Or is Ron worried about him because he’s barely out of an internship, and almost-dating someone who’s more than likely farther ahead professionally than him?

He figures that Draco holds a more prestigious position at the firm than him, just from his expensive suits, and car, and the air of success he carried with him. Not that that really matters, not to Harry. But, what if Draco cares? Harry doubts it, Draco has seen Harry’s tiny cubicle, and he had even asked him out on a date afterwards, so it’s not like he has to worry about self-important bullshit from Draco. Though, Harry remarks, it’s probably best not to bring up work too much with him. He doesn’t want to look like a novice to Draco, he wants to be his equal. His partner, even. He makes a small promise to himself to keep work out of their relationship, and falls asleep to the memory of Draco’s hand in his.

____________________________

The rest of the week goes by without incident. During his morning break on Tuesday, Harry relaxes with George on a comfy chair in the staff lounge. Smiling into his mug, Harry listens intently while George talks about his weekend spent with his girlfriend. In the middle of an explanation about the best time to admire the autumn foliage, George stops mid-sentence to glare at Harry.

“Are you hearing a word I’m saying right now?” he asks snarkily, throwing his hands up into the air.

“What?” Harry furrows his brow. “Yeah, you said that Angelina was upset she spent October away and she didn’t get to see the leaves turn. That was verbatim, by the way. I’m listening, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you look … I don’t know. Way too happy for the excitement level of this conversation.”

“Oh,” Harry hums. “I’m just in a good mood, I s’pose.”

“Why?” George inquires, looking suspicious. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he awaits an explanation.

“What, a bloke can’t be having a good day without an interrogation now?” Harry says, confused by George’s question.

“That’s not what I mean, Jesus, Harry. I’m glad you’re happy, or whatever. I’m just making conversation, I wanted to know if you had good news or something.”

“Oh,” Harry says again. “Well I guess I sort of do.”

George rolls his eyes. George is the king of eye rolls. If he hadn’t been such a notorious prankster, his superlative in high school would’ve been Most Likely to Die Rolling His Eyes, or something like that. “Well then, are you gonna tell me? You’re the one making this the interrogation, Harry. Just spit it out, would you?”

“Geez, alright,” Harry says, poking his friend in the side. “Now, you can’t really tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Sure, because I always broadcast your business around the office,” George responds drily.

Looking around, Harry makes sure no one is eavesdropping before he answers. It’s not as if relationships between staff are explicitly forbidden here, but it’s not exactly professional behavior either, so Harry would prefer to keep it on the down-low.

“I’m dating someone,” Harry whispers, smiling.

“That’s great,” George replies, genuine warmth in his voice as he grasps Harry’s shoulder and gives him a friendly shove. “Why’s it gotta be a secret, though?”

“He works in the office, too,” Harry informs him.

“Ah,” George acknowledges. “Consider my lips sealed. Can I ask who it is?”

“His name is Draco.”

George squints a bit. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Or heard of him, actually,” he says.

Harry just shrugs. “Ask Ron, if you want. He seems to know him. And possibly actively dislike him, but I have no clue why.”

He then raises his now empty mug in a toast, before depositing it in the dishwasher and making his way back down to the third floor to start in on his work.

                               

____________________________

 

Harry keeps himself busy, what with preparing ideas for a staff meeting coming up next week, and giving Hermione a hand with buying decorations for her flat. The meeting is for all PR assistants, and their assignment is to pitch an innovative idea to improve Malfoy & Associate’s current procurement of clientele. The firm’s reputation is solid and successful, but old, and due to this, they’ve been struggling in recent months to add new organizations to their congregation of longstanding, well established partnerships.

Harry’s a fresh graduate; creative and mostly confident and excited to be working at such a high profile law firm. Which just happens to make him nervous as hell to pitch a stupid idea in their brainstorming session. Lately, he’s been spending his nights with a notepad on his lap, scrawling suggestions across the lined paper for Malfoy, and his phone on his coffee table, lighting up periodically with another text from Draco.

Returning to his notes, Harry ponders. Part of the problem, he thinks, is that the firm has such an intimidating arsenal of high profile clients, both commercial and individuals, that they unintentionally present themselves as cold, and, if he’s being honest, sort of detached from the general public and legitimate issues that are pretty present in today’s society.

So, he uses that. Ignoring the insistent vibrations of his phone for a while, he comes up with a list.

Harry sighs, flopping back onto the couch. It’s not perfect, but it will do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within the next week or so, I should have chapter two ready to post. 
> 
> For anyone interested, my tumblr is [quaintpotter](http://quaintpotter.tumblr.com) \- I'd love to chat about HPDM and a whole host of other things.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, this week was a hectic one, but chapter two is up (obviously!).

 

A sunny Friday this close to winter is such an unexpected treat that Harry finds himself dressing for work with a grin on his face. It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that he and Draco have lunch plans.

Before leaving his flat, he ducks back into his room one last time, fidgeting with his unruly curls in the mirror. They, as per usual, have no semblance of control, and his black locks bounce back to their usual disastrous condition as soon as he attempts to make them lie flat. Oh well, he thinks. If the way Draco was running his fingers through Harry’s hair during their kiss goes to show anything, hopefully he won’t mind.

Harry’s on top of his game at work today, finishing most of his important tasks before lunchtime comes around. He picks up his cell from where it’s tucked away in the corner of his desk, about to text Draco and see what time they’re going to meet, when someone lets out a small cough behind him.

Turning around in his seat, Harry comes face to face with Draco himself, clad in the most casual work attire Harry’s seen him in to date, which isn’t saying much considering his usual go-to outfit is an expensive looking navy blue suit. Today, although he’s still wearing his slim fitting trousers, he’s also sporting a cosy jumper and button down combo that would look hideously unprofessional on anyone else, and a classy tan coat draped over his arm.

“Oh,” Harry breathes, surprised, “You’re here!”

“It would appear so, yes,” Draco feigns shock. “And here I thought I’d end up somewhere much more glamorous when I turned onto the PR floor.”

“My desk is plenty glamorous, thanks,” Harry retorts, standing up to grab his jacket from the back of his chair. As he stands, he can see the faces of his co-workers from over the walls of his cubicle. They’re all staring shamelessly, and Longbottom’s jaw is almost on the floor. Harry is slightly offended that they all seem so taken aback by the fact that he’s going on a date. He’s not that pathetic, _thank you,_ and it’s awful rude of them to be peering at them like this, if he’s honest. “Shall we go?” he asks, turning to Draco and pretending that he isn’t overwhelmingly uncomfortable with the fact that he can feel a dozen pairs of eyes on his back.

“Are you dressed warm enough to eat outside?” Draco asks, stopping him with a hand on Harry’s bicep when Harry starts walking away before awaiting a response. “It’s alright if you’d rather something else, but there was somewhere I wanted to bring you.”

Harry is a little surprised, he was expecting something along the lines of a hipster cafe, or maybe Nature’s Menu again to see Draco’s friend, Blaise. “No, yeah, that’s great,” he says, darting back to his desk and pulling his knit cap from his desk drawer.

“Perfect,” Draco declares, before accompanying Harry out from the workspace and into the hallway, his hand having moved deftly from Harry’s upper arm so that it was now swinging comfortably between them as they walked.

Generally, as a rule, Harry isn’t a fan of any sort of public displays of affection, however subtle they may be. They make him uncomfortable. He’s not sure if it’s because he has next to no interest in seeing a couple of strangers be sickeningly sweet while brandishing their love for all to see, or whether it’s because the mere idea of strangers watching _him_ during what he considers to be a personal moment to be, quite frankly, disturbing. He has enough trouble expressing his feelings in privacy, let alone with spectators. He still can’t believe he made it through the lantern festival with Draco’s hand firmly attached to his own without imploding from the lurch of self consciousness that remained rooted in his gut, no matter how hard he wished it away.

And yet, as Draco wordlessly holds open the door to the stairwell for him and they begin their descent into the lobby, something blossoms in his chest - loss. He wishes that Draco hadn’t moved his hand. The untouched curve of his waist, the small of his back, the palm of his clammy hand - they ached for the return of Draco’s solid warmth.

As they walk through the front doors into the crisp midday air, Harry notices for the first time that Draco has a small, leather knapsack slung over his shoulder.

“What’s that for?” Harry asks, curious. It’s not the satchel he usually sees Draco leave the building with when they’ve walked out together.

“What’s what for?” Draco pretends he doesn’t know what Harry’s talking about.

“That, on your back.”

“There’s something on my back? Get it off for me, will you? It’s not lint is it? I hope it’s not lint.” Draco pulls a disgusted face, tilting his head to try and peer at his own back.

“That would just be disastrous,” Harry jokes, snorting at Draco’s antics. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold, can’t exactly have lint around if you wanna be taken seriously.”

“Glad you understand.”

They walk for a minute or so in silence before turning a corner onto a less busy street.

“It’s our lunch,” Draco answers.

“What? What is?” Harry responds, looking around but not seeing anywhere that looks remotely like it may sell food.

“In the bag,” Draco explains. “I made us food.”

Harry’s eyes light up.

“Really, you did? What did you make?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you? We’re almost there,” Draco promises, teasing.

Almost on cue, Harry’s stomach grumbles. He shoots Draco a look, as if to say _we better be._

Turning another corner, Harry spies a small courtyard lies on their left, lined with dogberry trees, their stark redness standing out against it’s barren looking birch neighbours, who’ve long since shed their fall foliage. There are a few fat ducks waddling around what appears to be a tiny, man-made pond, and there’s a an even fatter pigeon hopping from the iron fence onto a small boulder with a tiny plaque attached to its surface. “Here?” he asks, already turning towards the entrance.

“Mhm,” Draco hums, following him in. They’re the only two there, excluding the birds, of course. The quiet gurgle of the fountain water moving is beating to the uneven thump of Harry’s heart. Under the largest dogberry tree, and old looking picnic table is nestled under its twisting boughs.

With a nod of affirmance from Draco, Harry strides over, slinging one of his legs over the worn wood, straddling the seat and resting his elbow on the table at his side. To his surprise, Draco settles alongside of him rather than opposite, so that they’re both facing away from the street, the babbling water at their backs. This way, if they look straight ahead they’ll be treated to the view of the dense grove of trees that grow so closely that some of their trunks appear to merge at the bases. The bold berries are plentiful, and Harry can spot a few robins flitting from branch to branch, picking at them with their pointy beaks.

“So, food?” Harry prompts, because when he turns his head away from the trees, Draco’s staring at him with a soft look in his eyes that Harry is too nervous to think about.

“Right,” Draco says, deftly opening the bag, pulling out two tupperware containers and a large green thermos. “I know you like chicken, so that’s what I made you. But next time, you can make a request if you want something different. I just wanted this to be a surprise, this time.”

“No, that’s perfect,” Harry assures him. “Did you get the chicken from Blaise?” he asks after his first bite, noticing the unique taste he’s come to expect from Nature’s Menu.

“The chicken, yes,” Draco says, while pouring steaming coffee from the thermos into a smaller, plastic mug for Harry to drink from. “I grew the spinach myself, actually. I have a small greenhouse at my place,” he adds quickly, like it’s a scandalous confession.

“No way,” Harry answers with his mouth full, before remembering himself. Draco smiles indulgently at him. He swallows, washing the delicious bite down with the piping hot coffee. “That’s really awesome. It’s good, I like it.”

“I know it’s good, that’s why I gave you some,” Draco says, looking at Harry funnily. “As if I’d give you something inedible,” he scoffs.

Harry laughs.

“You’re supposed to say _thank you, Harry, that’s very kind of you to say_.”

“Thank you, Harry. You’re really kind for saying that,” Draco repeats dutifully, a gleam in his eye.

“You are most welcome, Draco.”

They finish their food while they argue amicably over who’s going to win the World Cup this year, and they manage to fully drain the thermos of coffee before they pack up and head back to the office.

In a moment of courage, Harry latches his hand onto Draco’s. The smile that Draco graces him with does peculiar things to his heart. Harry smiles back, squeezing their fingers together. Their hands stay clasped together in a warm embrace until the reach the office.

Right before they separate in the stairwell next to the third floor, Draco pulls Harry in quickly with a hand on his side, fingers fanning delicately across his hip. The next thing Harry knows, Draco’s mouth is on his, giving him a soft kiss. His lips leave as fast as they came, and Draco pulls away, offering Harry a cheeky wink before continuing to climb up the stairs. Dumbstruck by the casual intimacy, Harry stands still for a few moments, collecting himself before reentering the PR floor.

He can only hope his blushing face doesn’t give anything away.

____________________________

 

Harry spends the weekend adding more notes to his suggestion list for the PR meeting on Monday. He’s got a brief outline, which is more than he usually has, and he’s hoping that Robards will be satisfied with his suggestions.

When he’s not chewing on his pencil, wracking his brain for original ideas, he’s either petting Hedwig, feeding Hedwig, or texting Draco. Late Saturday night while he’s frying himself an egg before he goes to sleep - or tries to sleep, he amends -  his ringtone starts playing. Confused, he shuffles across the kitchen to see who’s calling him so late. He, of course, is hoping that it’s Draco.

Instead, his phone displays Ron’s contact picture - a rather hilarious shot of Ron’s squished face pressed into a glass window as Ginny holds a fake spider in her palm behind him. It’s such a good photo that Harry debated printing out copies and gifting them to their mutual friends for Christmas.  

“Harry?” Ron’s voice comes tinnily through the speaker when Harry accepts the call.

“Hey,” Harry answers, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear as he sorts absentmindedly through the building pile of mail he’s thrown onto his counter. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I? I probably shouldn’t have called…” Ron trails off.

“No, mate, don’t worry, you’re good. I’m still up,” Harry reassures him, adjusting the temperature on the stove.

“Oh, good. Hermione’d kill me if I woke you,” Ron sighs in relief. “We meant to ask earlier, but we just remembered. Did you want to come to Mum and Dad’s place for dinner tomorrow? They haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I,” Harry falters. He misses the Weasley’s and their crowded family home terribly, but he’s always felt like an extra burden for them. Since childhood he’s been a tag along to a family that was already too big. The Weasley’s house was just about the only place he got a moment of peace growing up, despite the general craziness of the household. And as much as he longs to go back,  he hates to impose even more. Molly and Arthur have already done so much for him.

“I’d love to, you know that. Are you sure they don’t mind cooking for one more?” He asks nervously, bringing his finger up to his mouth to bite at a hangnail.

“Are you mad? They’ve been begging me to get you to come by,” Ron tells him bluntly. From the tone of his voice, Harry can tell that any attempt at arguing would be futile.

“Okay then,” Harry grins helplessly. “I’ll be there.”

____________________________

 

The next morning, he awakes to a text from Draco.

 _Draco_  

> Movie marathon today?

_Harry Potter_

> I can’t! Spending the day with the family. Next weekend?

It nearly kills him to turn Draco down, but the excitement of spending the day in the countryside at the only place that’s ever felt like home is blossoming in his chest. He knows Draco will be here when he gets back.

 _Draco_  

> Of course. Enjoy your day, next weekend sounds perfect. I’ll see you Monday xxx

____________________________

 

Harry takes Draco to his favourite Chinese restaurant Monday afternoon, with a promise that he won’t leave disappointed. It’s been a long morning, and Harry has eaten neither breakfast nor his mid morning tea, so his stomach is grumbling angrily by the time their food is served.

Shoving a forkful of noodles into his mouth, he swallows eagerly before taking another large bite. “D’you like yours?” he mumbles to Draco, watching him delicately pick at the chow mein on his plate.

Draco surprises him with his question. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you it was rude to talk with your mouth full?”

Surprised, Harry chokes on his noodles. He takes a moment to compose himself. The noise of the restaurant that seemed so loud before is now barely reaching Harry’s ears, which feel as though they’ve been filled with cotton. With his stomach now turning on itself for another reason, he responds.

“They died before I started eating solid food. I also didn’t know how to talk then, so, er, I guess not,” he says, as casually as possible.

Eyes darting up from his plate, he watches the colour fade from Draco’s face. He looks absolutely furious with himself, not to mention embarrassed. Harry waves his hand around, chopsticks dangling from his fingers.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, kicking himself for bringing his parents’ death up at such an inappropriate time, especially when Draco had said the comment in a way that was clearly a well-meaning joke.

“I,” Draco flounders. “Christ, I’m sorry, Harry, I shouldn’t have said that.” He reaches across the table, grabbing Harry’s hand in his, twining their fingers together on the cold tabletop. Harry lets him, allows the gentle touches to distract him. It’s been so long that Harry sometimes forgets about them, as awful as that sounds. In his memories, all he has left of them are his dad’s smiling face as he bounces Harry on his knee, and a flash of his mother’s fiery hair. The rest of his childhood memories are dominated by the Dursleys, with the brief reprieve of the Weasley’s cottage on the weekends.

“Don’t be. There’s no way you would’ve known,” Harry tells him, squeezing Draco’s palm before letting it go entirely, resting both of his own hands face down on his thighs. He rubs them back and forth, trying to get some feeling back into his fingers, into his head. He feels a little fuzzy. Why did he have to go and ruin a perfectly nice lunch?

“Still,” Draco insists, sitting back in his chair.

Both of their meals go untouched, until a waitress walks by and Draco asks her for two to-go boxes and the bill, please.

____________________________

 

Harry goes home that evening and throws up the little of his lunch he did manage to eat.

He stays there, cold and alone on the floor of the washroom until the sweat on his forehead has dried and he’s no longer feeling like his stomach wants to climb it’s way out of his throat. Slightly disoriented after being on the floor for so long, he grabs the bathroom counter to steady himself before running the cold tap, sticking his toothbrush under it. 

Harry curses himself for agreeing to spend Saturday at the Weasley’s. His own relatives never even wanted him around, what makes him think someone else’s family is willing to put up with him? Spitting his toothpaste into the sink, he steps back, looking at himself. He has his mother’s eyes.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight. He’d been fine, really, just forgetting about it. Not letting himself think about them. And now he’s gone and reminded himself, and upset Draco. Shaking his head, he walks back to his bedroom, and crawls into bed without changing into his pajamas. He just wants to fall asleep so he doesn’t have to think anymore.

Now, with a hurricane of unpleasant memories filling his head, sleep comes with even more difficulty.

____________________________

 

Harry calls in sick to work the next morning, before rolling back over in his bed and hiding his head under the covers.

He hears the insistent buzzing from his phone off and on throughout the morning, and he only gets up to switch it to silent. He’s been awake since he called Robards at eight, and since he buried himself under the covers the night before, he’s managed to sleep for a sporadic three and a half hours.

His PR meeting isn’t until tomorrow, and he’s already finished his list of suggestions. There’s nothing at the office that Ron won’t be able to handle today if something does happen to come up. He hasn’t taken a sick day yet, so he deserves a bit of a lie in today. That’s what he tells himself to try and quell the bubble of guilt building in his stomach, anyways.

Trying to clear his mind, Harry squeezes his eyes tightly, and focuses on the feeling of Hedwig purring from where she’s curled up in the crook of his knees. He knows he’s not going to be able to get any more sleep than he already has, but the idea of leaving his nest of warmth to face the day, as well as the awaiting messages on his phone, is the farthest thing from appealing that he can imagine.

He manages to stay in bed ‘til half past one, when a furious knocking rouses him from his exhausted daze. Struggling to push himself out of bed, he wraps himself in his quilt before shuffling to his front door, swinging it open before checking whom it may be.

Ron’s face is borderline frantic when he sees Harry standing there. “Oh, thank God,” he pants, running a hand over his face.

Harry continues to stand still, his stomach churning again now that he’s finally moved.

“Did you need something?” he mumbles, raising an eyebrow at his best mate when Ron fails to say anything else.

“Not really, just checking on you. Y’know, making sure you weren’t drowning yourself in the tub, that kind of thing,” Ron says snottily, pushing his way past Harry and into the flat.

“What?” Harry asks, floundering in his doorway for a moment before closing the door with a thud and following Ron through the flat and into his kitchen. He’s standing next to Harry’s fridge, peering inside.

Harry stands in silence, watching him before scooting up next to the counter. “Er … did you want me to make you lunch?” he asks, looking at the clock resting on the wall above the oven. Ron must be on his break.

“No,” Ron says. “Sit down, would you?”

Harry doesn’t move.

Raising his head so he’s looking at Harry instead of the measly contents of Harry’s fridge, Ron huffs impatiently. “Sit _down,_ ” he insists, more quietly, before grabbing Harry by the shoulders and turning him around, moving him forwards until he’s perched on the edge of one of his kitchen chairs.

“Why’re you here, then?” Harry asks, as Ron returns to the fridge and begins pulling out milk and eggs, and then flour from Harry’s pantry.

“Making you pancakes, aren’t I?” Ron says.

“Why?” Harry asks again, resting his cheek on his open palm. He can feel his eyelids getting heavy even in the bright light of the kitchen.

“I know you hardly ever cook for yourself, so someone’s got to.”

“I cook for myself plenty,” Harry replies, annoyed.

“Mate, I’m shocked that you’ve got more than booze and stale bread in your kitchen. That’s the standard I’ve been holding you to lately,” Ron says bluntly.

“I went grocery shopping last week,” Harry murmurs, cheeks heating.

“Good,” Ron says earnestly. “That’ll make ‘Mione feel a bit better.”

Harry groans. “She needs to stop,” he says, voice muffled by the palm of his hand that’s been hiding his yawning.

“She needs to stop what? Worrying? Not fucking likely, Harry. We both are, you know. Worried. You’ve been better in the past few weeks, but not near normal.”

“I’ve been doing well,” Harry insists. He ignores the way his heart picks up at the mention of his best mates caring about him. He just needs to be reminded of that, sometimes.

“Because of … Draco?” Ron asks, eyes darting up quickly from the frying pan where the fluffy pancakes are sizzling.

“Sort of,” Harry admits. Draco’s been a most welcome distraction, and a source of happiness for Harry these past few weeks. His sleeping has still been wonky, but it’s easier to remember to eat lunch when he’s got someone there to remind him. Today, and yesterday, have been the worst Harry’s felt in ages - and that’s his own fault. He’s the one who brought up his dead parents, and with it the sour memories of his years with the Dursleys.

“He came looking for you, today,” Ron tells him as he deposits the pancakes onto a plate and slides it in front of Harry on the table. The pancakes are stacked one on top of the other, fluffy and golden. “Syrup?”

“I … really?” Harry asks. “Blueberry jam?”

“Yeah, mate. Twice, actually, but I pretended not to see him the first time.” He plops the tub of jam along with a spreader next to Harry’s plate.

“What did he want?” Harry asks, shovelling a bite into his mouth. He can see the quirk of Ron’s mouth as he takes another bite. Ron’s pancakes are his _favourite,_ and Ron knows it.

“To know where you were, obviously. He said you weren’t answering his messages, or his calls. So then _I_ called you, ‘cause I figured you were just ignoring him since he’s an arse, but then you didn’t answer me either, so I came over. He tried to get your address out of me, but I didn’t want him coming with me if you weren’t … doing so great.”

“Oh,” Harry says, remembering shutting his phone off and pretending that the world consisted of only him, his bed, and his throbbing headache. “Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly.

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Right,” Harry whispers, feeling guilty for causing Ron so much grief, and grateful that no matter how difficult he unintentionally makes things, Ron sticks around with a grin and a helpful hand. Harry really doesn’t deserve his or Hermione’s loyalty, but he’s got it, and he’s not ever planning on losing it.

____________________________

 

Later that night, Harry turns his phone back on and watches as it lights up with notifications.

There are six texts from Draco, two from Ron, and a missed call from each of them.

 _Draco_ 6:03 PM yesterday

> Hey, Harry.

_Draco_ 6:04 PM yesterday

> I know you said it wasn’t a big deal on the way home from lunch, but I wanted to apologize again for what I said. It was insensitive and I’m really sorry that I upset you.

_Draco_ 10:43 PM yesterday

> You don’t need to answer, obviously, but could you let me know if you’re doing alright? You weren’t yourself when we got back to the office, and I hate to think I left you in a bad state.

_Draco_ 9:14 AM today

> Hey, just popped down to your desk but you weren’t there - are you coming in today?

 

 _One missed call from Draco_ 12:31 PM

 

 _Draco_ 12:36 PM today

> Alright you may be just ignoring me, and that’s fine. But I talked to Gawain Robards and he said you called in sick. Hope you feel better. Please text me later if you’re feeling up to it.

 

 _Ron_ 12:46 PM today

> Hey mate, everything alright ?

 

 _One missed call from Ron_ 12:51 PM

 

 _Ron_ 12:54 PM today

> If you don’t answer, I’m coming over.

 

Sighing guiltily, Harry flops back against his pillows. He never bothered making his bed today, there wasn’t much of a point in doing it, considering how little time he spent out of it. 

He hesitates before pressing on the _call_ icon next to Draco’s name. He doesn’t think that Draco will be terribly angry at him for ignoring him, but he’s mad at himself for it.

Taking a deep breath, he hits the button. The phone rings three and a half times before Draco picks up.

“Hello? Harry?” he says.

“Hi,” Harry answers, biting at his fingers. Draco’s voice is simultaneously soft and sharp, and it’s started to provide Harry with a calm he didn’t know he was looking for.

“Hi,” Draco echoes, and Harry can hear some movement from Draco’s end of the line. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry replies, ripping off a tiny flake of skin with his teeth. A prick of blood blooms on his fingertip, and he twists his hands in the bedsheet, staining the light fabric with a small streak of crimson. “Er, I wanted to say sorry,” he says.

“You wanted to?” Draco asks, his voice sounding confused over the speaker. Harry pictures the way his forehead furrows when he speaks like that. It’s incredibly endearing. “I’m the one who needs to apologize -”

Harry cuts him off. “No, really, you don’t. It was just a comment, you had no way of knowing. It’s fair to assume that someone’s parents are still around, I think. I mean, I do that all the time.”

“Still, it was careless of me. And I don’t even _speak_ to _my_ father, and when people bring that up to me, I get upset. So why in the hell would I say it to you? It’s just … I should know better.”

“I’m sorry about you and your dad,” Harry replies kindly, trying to not show his surprise. Draco never speaks of his family. He lays back against his headboards, watching as lights from cars outside his window sweep across his dimly lit bedroom. The neighbours across the street have begun stringing up their Christmas lights, which to Harry is criminally early. It’s only November.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s for the best, anyways. Thank you, though,” Draco says with a finality that promptly shuts that avenue of conversation. “And I hope you can accept my apology.”

“It’s not needed, really. I’m sorry, too. I don’t know why I answered like that, I mean, it … made it awkward.”

“Well, what other way could you have answered?” Draco insists. “It was the truth.”

“I mean, yes,” Harry falters. He supposes that was true. “I would’ve told you eventually, anyways.” Or, Draco would’ve found out by accident during one of Harry’s nightmares, which would’ve been even _worse_ . Putting a bottle on _that_ train of thought, Harry tries to reel himself back to reality. Who’s to say that Draco is even interested in spending the night? He seems interested, which is an incredibly flattering thing in and of itself, but Harry doesn’t want to get ahead of himself and screw things up farther.

“It would’ve been better for you if you were able to choose when you’d be comfortable to tell me, though,” Draco says softly.

“I suppose,” Harry agrees. “But what’s done is done. I’m sorry and you’re sorry.”

“Very much so, and you truly don’t need to be,” Draco insists. “Are you really sick today?” 

“Yeah. I was thinking about … things, last night, and I sort of, er, made myself nauseous.”

“Harry, I’m _sorry_ ,” Draco says again.

 “Stop that, Draco, really. Just forget it, alright? We sound like a broken record.”

 Draco huffs before grumbling, “I don’t think we should just shove it aside.”

Harry can hear him shifting on the other side of the phone. He wonders if Draco’s in bed.

“I really want to stop talking about it now, please,” Harry says firmly, albeit quietly. Draco is persistent and stubborn and impossibly dense at times, but Harry knows that in matters like this, he’ll listen.

 Draco stops immediately. “Of course. Tell me about your day, then.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Harry admits, breathing deeply to relax. He lifts himself up momentarily so that he can slide under his quilt. “I slept.  More than I usually get, which was nice.”

“How much do you normally get, then?” says Draco, and Harry bristles, not realizing the words had slipped out.

“I dunno, three hours?” Harry says, sticking to the theme of truth that seems to be pervading this phone call. His eyes dart around the room as if Draco is next to him and he’s avoiding eye contact. Really, it was closer to two, and sometimes it’s none at all, but Harry always did believe in rounding up, especially if it means quelling Draco’s unnecessary worrying.

“Three hours? That’s it?” Draco’s voice becomes more serious over the line, and Harry once again pictures his pinched expression. Perhaps he should have rounded up farther.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. There’s no backing out now. “I can’t really remember the last time I actually had more than that.”

“Fucks sake, Harry,” Draco remarks, sounding frustrated. “Have you tried -”

“Before you start, yes. I have tried everything, so please, no suggestions,” Harry cuts in.

“But,” Draco starts.

“But nothing,” Harry sing songs. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Draco insists.

“It _is_ , so knock it off,” Harry says exasperatedly. “Anyways, then Ron came over and made me pancakes.”

 “You have to be the most infuriating man I have ever met,” says Draco, before surprising Harry and letting the topic slide. “You like pancakes, you said?” 

"I love them, yeah,” Harry answers, flipping off his bedside lamp. With the light off and his sight limited, Draco’s voice sounds even more crisp in his ear.

“With chocolate chips? How about bananas?” Draco asks.

“Random choices, huh? But sure, any, all,” Harry confirms.

“Hm, I’ll have to put this information to good use,” Draco teases, an air of mystery to his voice. Harry smiles into the receiver, imaging Draco’s eyes crinkling the way they do when he’s joking around. 

“Please, do,” Harry laughs, burrowing into his pillows. “What about you, how was your day?”

“Oh, well …” Draco starts, and Harry lets himself be lulled into a sleepy daze by the soft tones of Draco’s voice.

 

____________________________

  


Harry wakes up the next morning in a significantly better mood. His neck has a bit of a crick in it from falling asleep with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, but the dull ache is worth the feeling of calm that settles over him as he prepares himself for work. Having Draco’s calm voice in his ear as he was curled up in bed really did the trick in quelling any thoughts or memories that otherwise would have had Harry staring up at his bedroom ceiling for hours.

Today is the conference meeting for the PR assistants at the branch. For once in his life, Harry isn’t scrambling at the last minute to scrape something presentable together. Hermione would be so proud.

The meeting isn’t until half past nine, and when Harry enters the conference room, it’s almost completely full. He chooses a seat close to the corner, so that he’s sitting with his back against the wall and he can see nearly everyone else in the room.

He waits quietly, watching as the last few stragglers filter in. Ron is one of them, of course, and Harry shrugs apologetically as someone had taken the empty seat beside him, leaving only one chair across the room for Ron. Ron flips him off good naturedly before plopping down onto the seat.

George enters the room next to last, with Robards following behind him, pulling the door closed with a soft thud.

“Alright,” Robards clears his throat, addressing them once the noise has subsided. He deposits a manila folder onto the big oak table where they were seated. “As you know, this is just a bit of a brainstorm meeting. As described in the email, we’re looking for fresh new ideas on how to improve our reputation and procure new clients. What we have going for us now is good, and it’s solid, but we’re a company that is looking to progress alongside our society, and so Mr. Malfoy sees it as necessary for us to appeal to clientele that may be … younger, or more liberal, if you will, than some of our older partnerships. So,” he claps his hands together once. “Who wants to begin?”

There’s a brief lull before Ernie tentatively raises his hand, and the ideas begin to flow from there. Nothing really seems to be standing out or truly impressing Robards, judging by the look on his face, but all the ideas get added to the whiteboard nonetheless. Someone actually has the gall to suggest dropping some of their more prominent - and problematic clients - which, despite agreeing with the sentiment on a more personal level, Harry is sure would only cause an uproar.

By the time Harry raises a hand to put his two cents in, there are ten or so suggestions littering the whiteboard, varying in degrees of possibility and cost.

“What if,” he says, eyes darting around self consciously, “What if we were more involved, and er, vocal on social media and public forums? I know it sounds basic, but if we could just prove to people through our words, and following through on them, that we’re here for more than white collar crimes and multimillion dollar businesses? I reckon it would make us seem more of a viable option for people who wouldn’t usually imagine themselves as the type of client we take.”

“Elaborate,” Robards commands thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. Harry, surprised at receiving even this much of a response, fumbles with his words momentarily as he sorts out what he wants to say.

“Er, well, like I said. Once we’ve established a reputation, we can reach out to organizations that we’d be interested in representing. And, if they feel like, you know, their values align with ours, we’ll have a way better chance of them choosing us than we do now, ‘cause, to be honest, we seem pretty bloody ancient.”

Lavender gasps across the room, surprised at Harry’s frankness.

“I like it,” Robards declares, tapping his palm against the table twice. George shoots Harry a thumbs up from across the room, and Harry grins. It’s the most positive response any of them have received thus far, and he’s pretty damn relieved, not to mention slightly pleased with himself. “Let’s leave it there. Thanks everybody, this was good. Harry - nice one.”

Robards stands up and exits the room, and soon after the other employees follow suit. As Harry’s waiting for the crowd to bustle through the tiny door and back out into the office space, he notices a few less than impressed glares directed his way. Shying back from them, confused and irritated, Harry lowers his eyes until he’s managed to squeeze his way out of the door. He hears Ernie whisper behind him, “Well, of course they choose Potter. I wonder if a certain someone had any say in that.”

“Probably gave him the idea, too,” hisses Lavender, as though Harry isn’t walking a few feet in front of her.

What? What _certain someone_? If there was anyone giving out pointers to get him ahead in meetings, he’d definitely like to meet them and hash out some of his ideas. He knows that they know he’s friends with George, but if George were to give anyone extra help, surely it’d be his own damn brother. Shaking his head, not even bothering to turn around and correct the pair, Harry heads back to his desk. He’s not in the mood to deal with this today.

He deserves this, he worked hard, and he _deserves_ this.

 

____________________________

 

Harry and Draco decide over lunch on Wednesday that this weekend is going to be their movie marathon. They’re sitting in the employee lounge, with only a handful of other staff milling around. Draco is carefully twisting the homemade pasta he brought for the both of them onto his fork with one hand, and flipping through a binder of files with his other. When Harry asks him what’s in them, he looks up from his work and smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” Harry confirms. “That’s why I asked, you see. Typically when someone asks a question, they’re looking for an answer,” he mocks.

“Just because it wasn’t the answer you were hoping for doesn’t mean it isn’t still an answer,” Draco retorts, smiling.

“Ha ha,” Harry says drily. “Your humour continues to amaze me. Tell me, Draco, have you ever considered stand-up?”

“My humour is very elite, there are so few people that would be able to give it the appreciation it deserves.”

“Too talented for stand-up,” Harry nods along, grinning.

“Indeed,” Draco smiles, resting his chin on his fist.

“Shame, I would’ve liked to see you in action.”

“Oh, would you now?” Draco needles, leaning in closer to Harry and lowering his voice. His eyes look incredibly bright, and Harry watches the veins in his forearms move as he shifts his weight on them. Harry gulps. It’s been long enough now that Harry’s seen Draco’s bare arms more than once, and the tattoo that wraps around his left one is most definitely a dragon of sorts, inked in deep greens and royal blues. Harry longs to touch it, but he can feel the eyes of his coworkers on them already. There’s no explicit rule that forbids relationships between employees, but Harry doesn’t like people watching him.

“Er, yes?” Harry replies, his face suddenly feeling very warm.

Draco leans back in his seat, looking infinitely pleased with himself, judging by the shit eating grin on his face. Harry rolls his eyes back at him.

“Don’t be an arse,” he mutters, taking a bite of his pasta. It’s so good.

“I’m not,” Draco replies, his grin becoming a shade softer. He drums his fingers across the tabletop to get Harry’s attention. “So. When am I coming over to your place to watch those ridiculous movies you’re so desperate for me to see?”

“First of all,” Harry says, “You’ve already watched the first one and admitted that you enjoyed it, so don’t pull any of that with me.”

“Duly noted.”

“And, this Friday works for me.”

“It’s a date.”

“Well, of course. I thought we’d agreed on that much already.”

“Shut it, you.”

 

____________________________

 

 

 

Since Harry is offering his couch, and his television and DVDs, Draco offers to bring the snacks.

“We don’t  _ need _ snacks,” Harry had tried to insist. He’s going to be so nervous, he knows, that he’ll barely be able to eat a thing.

“What? Don’t be stupid, of course we do. It’s a movie marathon. It’d be criminal not to have them.”

So, when Harry opens his apartment door to find Draco standing there with a tin of cookies in hand, he’s unsurprised but incredibly pleased. 

“They smell good,” Harry says, leaning forwards to capture Draco’s lips with his own. He tilts his head back as Draco brings up his free hand to cradle his jaw, shuffling forward and nudging Harry farther back into the apartment so that he can swing the door closed behind him. The kiss is over sooner than Harry would like, but the feeling of Draco’s mouth moving against his own for even a moment is not a feeling he reckons he’ll ever get tired of. 

“Are you going to show me around? Give me the big tour?” Draco asks as he shrugs off his coat, looking around for somewhere to hang it. 

“Oh, I’ll take that,” Harry reaches out, taking Draco’s expensive peacoat and draping it over the small bench he has in his front porch. 

“Interesting coat rack,” says Draco, resting his hand on the small of Harry’s back. Harry leans into the touch happily. 

“D’you want the tour or not?” he jokes, pulling away and gesturing for Draco to follow him after he deposits the cookies on Harry’s small side-table in the hall. 

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Draco says, and Harry has to use every inch of willpower he has to prevent his knees from buckling and melting onto the floor. His steps do falter, and Draco rounds on him, smiling innocently like he didn’t just send Harry’s heart into overdrive. “What, you liked that? Being called sweetheart? Who would’ve thought…” he trails off, bunching Harry’s jumper between his fingers, pulling him into his chest.

“Oh, bugger off,” Harry mutters, twisting away from Draco’s reach when his hands begin to tickle at Harry’s sides.

“I will do no such thing,” Draco retorts. “Why are you embarrassed?” He moves his hands to his own hips, standing across from Harry with an amused look on his handsome face. His hair falls loosely over his forehead, golden and soft. 

“I’m not  _ embarrassed _ , you prat,” Harry responds, turning away to hide his warm face. Harry can’t wipe the smile off of his face in this arsehole’s presence. 

“Sweetheart and  _ prat _ . One of these terms of endearment is not like the other,” Draco says. Harry can hear his footsteps following him out of the front hall and into his kitchen. 

“You’re right about that,” he says, turning back around to send Draco a small smile. Draco responds with a quirk of his mouth. 

“I always am, Harry,” says Draco.

“Doubtful,” Harry snorts, hitting Draco’s shoulder with a soft flick of his hand. They’ve gravitated closer together again, their socked feet almost touching from where they stand on the cold linoleum of Harry’s kitchen floor. 

Draco doesn’t even bother responding to Harry’s comment, he just leans in and slots his hips against Harry’s. Grinning, Harry rests his body against Draco’s, soaking in the warmth from his skin and the faint smell of mint floating on his breath. Harry’s hand is still curled around Draco’s shoulder, and he moves it upwards, tracing his fingers across Draco’s clavicle softly before moving upwards and over his adam’s apple, causing Draco to gulp. He stops the movement of his hand once he’s cupping Draco’s cheek. Daring to look up, Harry meets Draco’s silver eyes and smiles.

Draco doesn’t return the smile, but his eyes are filled with a heat that lights Harry up from the inside out. He’s hyper aware of every point of his body that’s touching Draco’s. 

“Your hands are cold,” Draco whispers.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Cold hands, warm heart?” he offers sheepishly.

Draco snickers, taking Harry’s head in between both of his - warm, and soft - hands, before resting his forehead against Harry’s, eyes closed and an expression of bliss on his face. Harry quickly shuts his eyes, too. He’d be terribly embarrassed if Draco caught him staring at him like this. 

He breathes in deep, focusing on the gentle circles that Draco is rubbing into his pulse points with his thumbs. Harry lets his own hands drift lower until they’re grasping Draco’s waist, fingers twisting into the soft cotton of his jumper. When Draco pulls his head back, Harry lets his own fall forward until his nose is pressed into Draco’s chest. He’s sure at this angle his unruly hair must be tickling Draco’s nose, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind. They rock back and forth for a moment before Harry forces himself to pull away. 

“The tour?” he says, his voice jarringly loud against the peaceful quiet of the moment.

“Onwards,” Draco says, lip quirking ever so slightly.

____________________________

 

Harry didn’t notice until they were settled onto his sofa that Draco was wearing joggers. Honest-to-God, soft cotton joggers. He must be blinking owlishly at Draco, because Draco quirks an eyebrow in question. They’re sitting a cushion apart, each of them curled into separate armrests, facing one another.

“Something on my face?”

“We haven’t eaten yet,” says Harry dumbly.

“True. So what is it, then? You just realized I have blond hair, and you have a rule against dating blonds? A groundbreaking epiphany of sorts?”

“I love your hair, you know that,” Harry scoffs.

“Then why, pray tell, are you staring at me as though I’ve just performed the most shocking magic trick you’ve ever seen?”

“You’re wearing joggers,” Harry answers simply.

“Yes…” Draco trails off searchingly. He looks so confused, it’s adorable, really.

“Yes,” Harry echoes, not offering any further explanation.

“Can you catch me up here, please? Honestly Harry, you live to confuse, don’t you?”

“Confusion is a speciality of mine,” Harry says. “Fine, then. I just never pictured you as the type of bloke who’d wear joggers.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Draco says. “Did you expect me to show up here in a suit? Everybody wears joggers.”

“I’m not wearing joggers,” Harry points out. 

“No, not now. You’re wearing pyjamas,” Draco says, his tone making it sound like it was supposed to be an insult.

“This is a movie marathon, pyjamas are perfectly suitable for movie watching,” Harry argues, reaching across the sofa to nudge Draco’s thigh with his toes. Draco reaches out quickly to grab Harry’s foot and hold it still before Harry has a chance to pull it away.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” Harry warns, attempting to sound as menacing as possible. According to Ron, that’s usually not very menacing at all. Harry had told Draco over a cup of tea last week about how ticklish his feet are. Draco had responded by saying he had trained himself to no longer be ticklish one summer when he was a child, because of  _ course _ Draco did that.

“Don’t I dare, what, Harry?”

“Tickle me,” Harry hisses out, trying to wriggle his socked foot out of Draco’s firm grasp.

“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Draco says impishly. “But since you’ve brought it up…”

“Draco!” Harry yelps when Draco immediately digs his thumb into the arch of Harry’s left foot, using his other hand to lightly tickle at his sole. 

“Harry!” Draco crows, mocking him. Harry can’t stop the laughter that’s bubbling up in his throat, yelling and thrashing his foot around in Draco’s hand. With one particularly hard kick, Harry somehow manages to unbalance Draco, and Harry watches in slow motion as Draco begins to fall sideways off of the sofa, and he shouts again as the inevitable pull of Draco’s weight drags him down, too. They land in an unceremonious heap on the hard floor, breath pushed out of them in a whoosh.

“Such an arse,” Harry jokes, pulling his feet back towards his own body. He moves to stand up, but as he balances on his knees, Draco’s hand flies out and pulls him in by his collar, successfully stealing Harry’s breath away once again as he lands against Draco’s chest with a thud.

Draco groans. “I was not expecting you to land that hard.”

“I’m solid,” Harry boasts while raising his head so that he can Draco can look at each other again.

“Very macho,” Draco nods. He gets his elbows underneath him so he has a better angle to kiss Harry, much to Harry’s delight. Harry settles in between Draco’s spread thighs. Sitting this way, his groin is pressed against Draco’s, and Harry deepens the kiss to suppress any embarrassing noises that may escape. Draco’s lips are always so damn soft, and it makes Harry incredibly aware of the state of his perpetually chapped ones. It’s hard to think though, when you’ve got someone as handsome and lovely as Draco spread out beneath you, and soon Harry finds his brain clouded in a thick cloud of  _ want _ . 

They’re more or less horizontal now, with Draco’s hands toying at the hem of Harry’s jumper rather than holding them up. His deft fingers map shapes into the sensitive skin at the small of Harry’s back, bringing with them trails of goosebumps despite their warmth. 

The kiss is slow and heavy, but the swirl of feelings rushing through Harry makes it seem all-encompassing, what with the way that all he can think about is Draco’s mouth against his own. Draco is hot, in both the figurative and literal sense, and hearing him gasp beneath Harry is absolutely devastating in the most wondrous and overwhelming way. 

He can feel himself getting hard, and from the way Draco is tilting his hips up to press against him, Harry thinks that he must be, too. 

Draco’s mouth moves away from Harry’s, trailing sloppily across his jaw and followed closely by the cradle of his fingers. Without the kiss to occupy his lips, Harry can’t help but moan softly at the sensation. Seemingly encouraged by his noises, Draco echoes the sound, shifting up into a sitting position that causes Harry to end up straddling his lap, thighs stretched wide. 

They meet each other’s gaze, eyes heavy lidded and breathing heavily. Harry’s about to open his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, but Draco muffles his words with another kiss. He opens his mouth, letting their tongues move together as the kiss deepened once more. Harry is just starting to really grind his hips down when the unexpected ringing of Draco’s mobile startles the two apart. Harry almost falls sideways as he wobbles atop of Draco, but Draco’s hand shoots out and steadies him with ease. Harry rests his hand on top of Draco’s where it’s grasping his waist, giving his fingers a grateful squeeze. 

With his free hand, Draco reaches into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and sighing frustratedly when he sees the caller ID. 

“Who is it?” Harry asks, voice raspy. 

“Work,” Draco groans, blowing his hair out of his face as he looks at the mobile as if it’s just insulted his mum. “Of course.”

“Ignore it,” Harry grumbles, tilting forward to press a persuasive kiss against Draco’s lips, which have progressed from their usual soft pink to a shiny red.

“I can’t,” Draco says, eyes apologetic. “Only a minute, I promise.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry assures him, scooting off of his lap and back onto the cold floor. “It’s fine.” No one ever calls  _ him  _ on Friday nights about work. Draco must be dealing with some high priority stuff if something has to be attended to at this time. 

“Thanks, Harry,” Draco says, then accepts the call. “Greg, make it quick, would you?” he stands up, striding across the room and through the entrance to the kitchen. 

Harry leans back against the side of his sofa, bending his neck so that his head can rest against the cushions. His head is positively swimming, and his cock is hard as a rock. 

Hedwig meanders over, and Harry can’t ignore her pleas for attention even with a raging hard-on. And that’s how he ends up petting his cat with his boner tenting his pants and his sort-of boyfriend whisper yelling at some poor bloke over the phone. 

____________________________

 

Draco spends ten minutes pacing around Harry’s kitchen speaking to whoever it was he was speaking to, and Harry feels himself go soft about seven minutes in as Draco started droning on about solicitor-client assessments. 

When he ambles back into the room, Harry’s got the movie queued up and ready to go.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, collapsing onto the sofa next to Harry. 

“Don’t be. We’ve got lots of time for that,” Harry says, and lets his shoulder bump Draco’s softly.

Draco’s face lights up at that, and he ducks his chin momentarily before looking back up at Harry. “Yeah,” he says softly.

Soon Harry finds himself lamenting about Frodo’s unending stupidity along with Draco, the tin of cookies resting on his lap, half eaten.  

“What is  _ wrong  _ with him?” Draco is practically shrieking. “Take the ring  _ off _ ! He  _ knows- _ ”

“Here we go again,” Harry joins in. “Honestly, does he only know how to fall down?”

Sometime after Frodo nearly ruins the entire quest,  _ again,  _ Harry finds himself with Draco curled up against his side, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder. He’s got a hand draped across Harry’s right thigh, and Harry can’t wipe the grin from his face. He’s hardly even paying attention the the movie anymore, not when all he can focus on is Draco’s warmth pressed up against him. He’s seen it a load of times anyways, but Draco is enraptured and Harry stares down at him fondly as Draco watches, captivated. 

In a moment of bravery, Harry lifts his arm up and runs his fingers through Draco’s hair. It’s thicker than it looks, and it parts like silk between his fingers. Draco hums contentedly, and Harry smiles, smug. 

“This is okay?” he asks, just to be sure.

“More than,” Draco insists, tilting his head into the touch. “You’re good at that.”

“Er, thanks,” Harry says. “You’re, um, good at it, too.” He never knows how to respond correctly to compliments like these. It feels funny to take a compliment and not offer one back, and this one fell from his tongue before he could shut himself up. 

“Good at getting my hair played with? Haven’t heard that one before,” Draco laughs gently.

“No,” Harry amends quickly. “You’re good at playing with hair, too. With my hair, I mean. I liked it when you did it, for me.”

“When did I do that?” Draco asks, shifting so that he’s no longer tucked into Harry’s side. Harry would complain about the change in position if it weren’t for the fact that now he gets to see Draco’s face.

“When we were kissing. A few times,” Harry murmurs, voice low. His eyes flicker down towards Draco’s lips. Seeming to notice, Draco’s tongue darts out quickly to wet them. When Harry looks back up, Draco’s eyes are focused intensely on him. 

“Ah, of course,” Draco says. He’s shifting closer to Harry, his hand sliding forward on the couch until it’s near Harry’s chest. “I guess I forgot.”

“I can refresh your memory?” Harry blurts. Before he knows what’s happening, Draco’s on top of him, with Harry’s back pressed into the couch and their chests flush together. His fringe droops and tickles Harry’s nose. 

“Be my guest,” Draco drawls, quirking a challenging eyebrow. 

“You’re the one supposed to be proving your skills to  _ me,”  _ grumbles Harry. 

“True,” Draco hums. He runs his thumb across Harry’s lips, and Harry darts his tongue out to taste it. Huffing, Draco slides his fingers so that they’re cradling the back of Harry’s head, and he finally lowers his head so that he and Harry can begin kissing once more. This kiss is fiercer than the last one they shared on the floor, and Harry can feel himself chubbing up only seconds in. Draco’s mouth is  _ sinful _ , just like the rest of him. He’s made space for himself between Harry’s legs, and while his delicate hands pull and massage Harry’s hair, his lower half is grinding down rhythmically against Harry’s body. 

Harry gladly meets him halfway. It feels good to rut up against something, especially when that something is Draco’s toned stomach. He can feel Draco’s prick pressing up against his arse, and groans quietly. He’s already leaking just from this. They rut against one each other like that, kissing and panting and pawing. 

Draco’s perfect pale skin is rosy and pink, his pupils dilated. Harry’s sure his own hair is a right mess, even more so than usual considering the fact that Draco’s got his fingers tangled in it. Not to mention Harry’s head has been sliding up and down the armrest with every thrust of Draco’s hips. 

Tentatively, Harry withdraws his hands from where they’ve wrapped themselves around Draco’s shoulders. He lowers them, trailing his fingers teasingly down Draco’s torso and to the waist of his joggers. Draco’s eyes snap to his.

“Okay?” Harry whispers, voice rough. He’s so hot right now he thinks his glasses might be fogging up. 

“Yes,” Draco says, reattaching his lips to the spot on Harry’s neck that awarded him with the loudest moans and whimpers. Harry yanks Draco’s joggers down over his arse, taking his pants with them. Unceremoniously, he does the same to his own. He lines their cocks up, taking them in hand and pumping. Draco’s lips falter on his neck and he moans. “ _ Yes,”  _ he hisses. Harry takes his hand away momentarily, causing Draco to moan for another reason.

“Relax, would you?” Harry laughs, but he’s desperate to get his hands back on Draco, too. He spits into his shaking palm before wrapping his fist around again. His hand glides easily, twisting and pulling. He and Draco are both moaning now, softly panting while Draco sucks a hickey over Harry’s protruding collarbone. They’re both so wound up, Harry knows this isn’t going to last for much longer. They’ve been teasing and flirting and kissing all night, for weeks, really, and Harry’s been  _ waiting  _ for this. Harry takes his free hand and reaches around to squeeze Draco’s arse. 

Draco’s breath hitches, and he thrusts harder into Harry’s grasp. Seconds later, Draco’s fingers are rubbing at Harry’s nipples from where he snaked his hands up under Harry’s shirt. 

“ _ Oh, _ ” Harry gasps, before spilling all over his fist. His rhythm falters as he orgasms, and Draco brings his hand away from Harry’s nipples and down to their cocks, placing his hand over Harry’s and jacking them off together until he stills momentarily and comes, too. 

On the screen, Frodo falls down.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH boys!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this bit - I'd love to hear what you're thinking/guessing/hoping/dreading :-)
> 
> Chapter three should be up within the next week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little longer than expected to upload, I've had a hectic schedule for the past few weeks.

They end up having to leave the couch to wash their hands before they can continue the movie, and when it’s finally over, they’re both too exhausted to start the next one. It’s past midnight and all of the cookies Draco brought with him have been eaten. Draco had been awfully smug about Harry liking them so much, so Harry started complaining about their texture to shut him up. It was funny until Draco insisted on making a batch good enough for Harry’s standards, and stormed into the kitchen in search of supplies to make new ones right then and there.

“Harry, where, if I may ask, is all of your food?” Draco says, very calmly.

“Some is there, some is in the fridge. I think I have a box of crackers in my bedside drawer,” Harry says, plopping himself down on a chair.

“All you’ve got here is eggs and bread! And this frozen dinner,” Draco shakes the package around in the air.

“It’s just me living here, I don’t need that much. It’ll just go bad,” Harry defends self consciously.

“You need more than _this,”_ Draco says. “You’re going to give me a migraine, honestly.”

“What?” Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re being overdramatic. Besides, you make me lunch almost every day now anyways.”

“Almost every day,” Draco repeats, raising his eyebrows. “There are other days, and two other meals a day, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I am aware,” Harry scoffs. “It’s fine, I eat enough.”

“That is not enough.”

“It is, and I’d appreciate it if you’d knock it off.”

“I’m sure you would, but I won’t. I care about you, as I’m sure you know, and I want you to care about you, too, Harry.”

Harry flushes, darting his eyes away from Draco’s perceptive stare. “Yeah, well,” Harry says, and leaves it at that, not quite sure what else to say. It’s not that he doesn’t care about himself. Draco’s acting like he’s a real nutter. He’s a good cook, Petunia made sure of that, but he’s just so _tired_ and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t sleep. In turn, he rarely has the energy to make meals these days. What does Draco expect? Probably for him to be a well functioning adult. Well, surprise.

“Yeah, well,” Draco repeats again.

“Stop repeating me,” Harry mumbles.

Draco crosses the kitchen until he’s standing in front of Harry. His slim fingers slide across Harry’s neck, squeezing gently. “I’m not trying to make you mad, Harry.”

“I know that,” Harry concedes. “But it’s not like I’m not eating, yeah? I love food,” he tries to assure Draco.

“I know you do,” Draco agrees, squeezing again. His fingertips scratch softly at Harry’s neck where his hair begins to taper off. “How am I supposed to make you breakfast if there’s no food in your flat?”

“You’re staying the night?” Harry blurts, eyes snapping to Draco’s.

“Oh,” Draco falters. “My apologies, I guess I just assumed, ignore that -”

“No, no,” Harry rushes to assure him. “I’m not, it’s not - I’d like that, I just didn’t know if you would.”

“Obviously,” Draco says, voice fond.

“Obviously,” Harry breathes, rolling his eyes at himself and Draco.

“Stop repeating _me,_ ” says Draco, looking terribly amused at his own antics.

“You,” Harry says, “Are an actual child.”

“Anyways,” Draco interrupts. “Now that we’ve got tonight’s arrangements all sorted, you haven’t answered my question.”

“What was your question?” Harry asks. Now Draco’s sitting on the chair opposite him, and he’s taken Harry’s hand in his own, his slim fingers rubbing patterns across Harry’s palm.

“How am I supposed to make you breakfast?”

“You don’t have to make me breakfast, I can make breakfast,” says Harry.

“I _want_ to make you breakfast, then.”

“What if I want to make _you_ breakfast?” Harry questions, raising an eyebrow. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Then we both can make breakfast, alright?”

“Alright,” Harry agrees. “That seems to be the most fair solution.”

“I concur. There’s still the problem of actually having ingredients to make it,” Draco points out. Raising the hand that isn’t holding Harry’s, he stretches, yawning. He runs his hand across his eyes, shifting in his seat as he awaits a response. He truly is gorgeous, Harry thinks to himself. Flushed and sleepy and warm, and all Harry’s.

“Well, I mean, we can just go buy some,” Harry says. “There’s this thing called a supermarket, surely you’ve heard of them. That’s the obvious solution. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, I thought you were clever.”

Draco shakes his head and pinches his nose. “You really are something,” he says, and right as Harry starts to protest, Draco leans in and shuts him up with a kiss. “Don’t look so offended,” he says when he pulls back and sees the look on Harry’s face. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

“I wasn’t offended, I was upset that you stopped kissing me,” Harry jokes.

“Want me to do it again?” Draco whispers, but he’s already leaning in.

“Yes,” Harry breathes, his eyes fluttering closed when Draco’s close enough that he can feel their breath mingling. He’s a little surprised when Draco nips at his lip, and he parts them, granting Draco’s tongue entrance. It’s wet, and nice, and Harry lets himself get lost in the now familiar sensation of kissing Draco. It must be a few days since Draco’s shaved, which is unusual for him, because his stubble is rough against Harry’s cheek as they kiss. Harry loves it. The hard wooden chair is uncomfortable underneath his arse, but it’s worth it if it means he gets to keep experiencing this feeling.

When they pull apart for air, Harry says “I don’t know how we’re supposed to have a discussion if we just keep snogging.”

“You’re the one that _asked_ me,” Draco complains, and leans back in to kiss Harry. Harry holds him back with his hands on Draco’s shoulders.

“But I want you to make me pancakes,” he says, tilting his head to the side and giving Draco his most persuasive look. It seems to work, because Draco falters.

“I thought you wanted to make me pancakes,” says Draco, his hand never leaving it’s position cradling Harry’s jaw.

“I just want pancakes, if I’m being honest. I don’t care who makes them,” Harry replies sheepishly.

“Well, then you’ll get pancakes,” Draco declares. “Should we go and get the necessities tonight?”

“Probably,” Harry groans, looking at the clock. It’s past midnight, but there are twenty-four hour stores around the neighbourhood that they can go to buy what they need. He’s so tired, but he knows getting up out of bed early will be even worse, especially considering the amount of tossing and turning he does throughout the night.

“Agreed,” Draco says. “I can only imagine how devastating it’ll be to leave a bed with you in it.”

Draco sounds so incredibly sure of himself as he says it, his voice steady and confident. Harry’s positive he’d never be able to accomplish doing so himself. He’d probably have a heart attack if he ever tried to say something like _that_ out loud. Already, just at the words and the idea of it, Harry feels a wave of aching desire crash over his body.

“You can’t just say things like that,” Harry chokes, suddenly wanting Draco’s lips back on his.

“Things like what?” Draco asks. Harry can practically hear the smugness creeping into Draco’s voice. He knows damn well _what_ , Harry thinks.

“You know damn well what,” he tells Draco as much.

“No, I don’t.” Oh, so he’s playing it that way, thinks Harry. “Tell me,” Draco insists.

“That you - in bed, with me…” Harry trails off uncertainly.

“You don’t want to hear that I want to be in bed with you?” Draco pauses, lowering his voice so that he’s speaking in a low, smooth tone. When Harry doesn’t respond, he continues. “That I want to strip you down, spread you out on your mattress, run my hands all over your body? Watch you blush and squirm?” Draco draws closer with every question. The hand on Harry’s jaw is a steady warmth, and the only point of physical contact they have, and Harry throbs for more. He opens his mouth, floundering for a response that isn’t a moan.

“Because I do, so badly. You’re bloody gorgeous, I want to touch you. Get you so hot that all you can think about is my hands and all the places you want to feel me,” Draco says on a whisper, his voice hotter than Harry’s heard it before. “Would you like that, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry finally chokes out. It feels like all of his breath has been stolen from his lungs.

“Good.” Draco sits back on the chair, his breath no longer mingling with Harry’s, his hand disappearing from it’s caressing hold on Harry’s face. Harry feels the absence of Draco’s touch like a blow to the chest. “Now that that’s settled, how about those groceries?”

____________________________

 

Even though Draco had driven his ridiculously expensive car to Harry’s place, they decide to take the tube to the grocery store. They’re both tired - and still a little horny, if Harry’s honest - but Draco is serious about buying this food. Besides, if he has to sit through a twenty minute car ride with Draco while simultaneously fearing for his life and dealing with a raging erection, he’s not sure he could make it.

It’s sort of funny, looking at Draco compared to the other passengers on the tube. Even in his joggers, he somehow manages to look put together and sophisticated. Draco had insisted that Harry put on real trousers before they left the flat, seeing as it was the middle of the night, in the winter no less. The wind is cold enough through the heavy denim of his jeans that Harry is glad he’s no longer wearing his flannel pyjamas. The walk to and from the station isn’t a long one, but Draco kept insisting how important proper winter attire was. So, Harry finds himself in his puffiest jacket and mittens, squished into the tiny seats of the tube with the solid heat of Draco at his side.

“So,” Harry leans in. “What’s on the list?”

“Shouldn’t you have an answer for that? It’s your food, after all.”

“Good point,” Harry laughs. His glasses are still slightly fogged up from the sudden warmth after leaving the frigid air outside, making it hard for him to see Draco’s face. Annoyed, he takes them off and begins to wipe them with the hem of his shirt.

Before he can slip them back on over his face, Draco takes his chin in between his finger and thumb, tilting Harry’s face towards him. He looks even blurrier now, despite their proximity, and Harry squints his eyes exaggeratedly.

“I think I like the way you look better like this. Sort of an undefined blob, with grey eyes.”

“Aren’t you just full of compliments?” Draco says.

“This is high praise, coming from me,” Harry insists, eyes still scrunched. Draco’s fingers haven’t left his chin.

“Oh is it now? I’m sure you can do better than that,” Draco teases. “Maybe if you say something truly nice I’ll give you a kiss.”

“You’ll give me one anyways,” Harry says assuredly.

Draco laughs, letting go of Harry’s chin and dropping a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Such a thoughtful blob,” says Harry.

“That’s better, I suppose,” Draco concedes. His hand is warm on Harry’s waist, and Harry is taking note every place their bodies touch. Draco shifts so that he can rest his arm casually across Harry’s shoulders, and Harry’s insides squirm happily.

“Anyways,” Harry begins. “D’you think we should buy chocolate chips? For the pancakes.”

“How is that even a question? Yes, we are most certainly buying chocolate chips,” says Draco.

“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d agree.”

“Great minds think alike,” Draco drawls.

“Sure, something like that,” Harry laughs. He glances sideways at Draco, drinking in his appearance. Harry’s noticed that whenever he laughs at something Draco does or says, Draco gets this tiny, pleased smile that is barely noticable if you’re not looking for it. By now, though, Harry likes to consider himself somewhat of an expert on Draco’s face and all of its little secrets - the crows feet in all of their sweet crinkling, the tiny peek of his tongue as it pushes up against his teeth and holds back a grin, the faint blush rising high on his cheekbones - Harry notices and loves it all.

They get off at a station just across the street from Harry’s usual grocery store, and the heat that washes over them as they cross the hearth is sudden and welcoming. Harry stomps the dusting of snow from his sneakers onto the mat and waits for Draco to do the same before they continue in past the porch.

Harry tilts his head in the direction he’s going, and then trudges forward. It’s probably a good idea to pick up the heavier items like the milk last so they don’t have to lug it around the store, he supposes. Turning back to Draco to tell him to pick up a basket, he’s met with Draco holding two apples up to his eyes, sporting a very silly grin.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Harry hisses, trying to hold back a laugh. The cashier is looking at them from his perch across the store.

“Get it?” Draco says. “You’re the apple of my eye.”

“Oh my god, stop,” says Harry, simultaneously flattered and embarrassed. “You shouldn’t be allowed out in public.”

“You love it,” Draco replies, lowering the apples from his face and depositing them into the plastic green basket that he’d picked up a moment before.

“I suppose it’s okay.”

They continue along in their hunt for pancake ingredients along with the other items that Draco insists Harry buy - a box of chocolate chip cookies, pretzels, yogurt cups, grapes, sandwich meat, and bread.

“Excessive,” jokes Harry, looking down at their basket.

“I’m going to pretend that you don’t think that the bare minimum is too much,” Draco rolls his eyes.

“I’m messing around, relax, geez,” Harry says. “Look, I’m just bad at remembering to go shopping. I’ll start setting reminders on my phone or something.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” says Draco. “Do that, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Harry says. “I am quite the clever bloke, coming up with novel ideas like that.”

“I’ve no doubt. Hey, do you think we should get kiwis to slice for the pancakes?”

 

____________________________

  


The ride back to their station and the subsequent walk to Harry’s building are uneventful. Draco good naturedly bypasses the elevator in the lobby and holds open the door to the stairs. By the time Harry turns his key to let them back into his flat, his ears and toes are still cold despite his thick socks and hat. Shucking off his shoes and coat with Draco following suit, Harry smiles to himself. He feels good - domestic, in a way that he hasn’t before. Doing mundane things like grocery shopping never interested him during the previous relationship he’s had. Mostly, with Terry, it had been physical, and Harry had purposely made himself largely emotionally unavailable to avoid inevitable heartbreak.

Now, with Draco, he wants to know what it’s like to wake up on a Sunday morning to the smell of bacon sizzling on a pan, wants to do all of the boring everyday tasks that are no fun when you have to do them by yourself. Planting flowers in the empty pots on his tiny balcony, folding the laundry on drizzly days, ordering in take out - everything seems so much more appealing when he thinks about doing it with Draco. He’ll take the risk of opening up if a relationship with Draco is the payoff.

“We should probably go to bed now,” says Harry, turning back around.

“Mhm,” agrees Draco. Harry grins at the way the wind has ruffled Draco’s hair and the red splotches on his cheeks.

“What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing. You just look very cute like that,” admits Harry, stepping closer towards Draco. Draco turns his head to peer into the mirror in Harry’s front hall.

“My hair is appalling, and I’m bright red,” says Draco confusedly while bringing his hand up to tug self consciously at his locks.

“Yeah. Like I said, cute,” Harry teases while placing his hands on Draco’s chest as he tilts his neck up to capture Draco’s lips in a kiss.

“I suppose I’ll refrain from disagreeing if it means you’ll kiss me again,” Draco breathes into Harry’s mouth once he pulls back slightly.

“And here I was thinking you _wanted_ me to compliment you,” Harry says, poking Draco’s side with his finger.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” laughs Draco, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and pulling him in. Harry’s hands are still resting just under Draco’s collarbone, and the mimic their movements from earlier in the evening as the rock back and forth in embrace for a moment. Draco’s cold finger sneaks past the waist of Harry’s jeans and Harry shivers. From the cold or from the implication of the touch, he isn’t quite sure.

After a minute, Draco murmurs, “Let’s put the groceries away and go to bed.”

It’s hard to pull himself away from Draco’s chest - he was rather enjoying feeling their skin touching. Putting away the groceries was satisfyingly quick, much to Harry’s immense pleasure. Before he knows it, he and Draco are shuffling down the dim hallway to his bedroom.

It’s nerve wracking, bringing someone into the place where you feel the most comfort, Harry thinks anxiously. Despite not being able to sleep as well as he’d like to, his bed is somewhere that brings him a great deal of peace. Bringing Draco into this space of security sets him on edge, for reasons he’s not sure he understands.

His lamp is on next to his bedside, casting a peachy glow over them. Harry debates momentarily over whether he should flip on the main light switch, but ultimately decides against doing so. Draco is behind him, close by without crowding into his personal space too much, which Harry appreciates through his nerves. He flicks his gaze back to Draco, drinking in his appearance under the mellow light emanating from the lamp.

“Shall we?” Draco interrupts Harry’s thoughts, inclining his head in the direction of Harry’s bed.

“Er, yeah, ‘course,” Harry says, nodding his head a few times. “I just, er, need to change into my pyjamas again.”

“Okay. Is it alright if I use your loo?”

“No, go ahead. It’s the door on the left,” Harry instructs, secretly relieved that Draco is excusing himself from the room while Harry changes. Once Draco has left, Harry shuffles out of his jeans and back into a soft pair of flannel trousers. Not the ones that he had been wearing earlier in the evening - he’d gotten Draco’s come on those. The thought sends a coursing jolt through his body, but he rubs his fingers over his eyes, squeezing them closed as he lowers himself until he’s sitting on the edge of his mattress. He wants to have sex with Draco, of course. He’s feeling a bit overstrung after all they’ve done in the hours since Draco’s arrived at his flat. Being exposed to someone else, both physically and emotionally, is draining, and Harry’s not so sure he can handle any more of that tonight.

Draco re-enters the room then, his face tranquil and eyes soft. He tilts his head curiously at Harry’s expression, which Harry quickly tries to hide.

“Are you all ready?” Draco asks, lifting one knee onto the foot of Harry’s bed, causing the mattress to dip from his weight.

“Mhm,” Harry hums before scooting back so that he’s resting against his pillows. He lifts his covers and slides under, waiting for Draco to crawl in next to him. The sheets are cold, but Draco’s hand is warm where it grasps Harry’s shoulder. His fingertips dance across Harry’s clavicle, the touch so light that Harry can barely feel it. Harry watches the muscles in Draco’s hand move in fascination - he has very nice hands.

“You should close your eyes,” Draco whispers, breath fanning across Harry’s ear.

“Oh,” Harry whispers, confused. “I want to keep them open.”

“What?” Draco huffs. “Why? You’re exhausted.”

Harry’s sleep addled brain isn’t allowing him to follow this thread of conversation in the slightest.

“I want to see what we’re doing,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Draco.

“We’re going to be _sleeping._ There’s nothing to see,” Draco replies, continuing to massage Harry’s shoulder and back in small, comforting circles.

“Er, we aren’t … I thought you wanted to, y’know … fuck,” Harry admits, while relief floods his stomach.

“Well, obviously we’d both like to. You’re tired though, and I am, too. I didn’t think you wanted to right now, anyways. Not many people change into their pyjamas for the sake of taking them off thirty seconds later, you know.”

“Fair point,” Harry concedes. “I don’t usually put out until the fifth date, anyways.” Which isn’t completely true, and is mostly a joke, as evidenced by their earlier escapade on the couch, but Harry had his mind on other, more intimate things that he wants to do with Draco.

“Five?” Draco laughs kindly. “What number are we on now?”

“I dunno,” Harry says behind a yawn. “I see so much of you I’ve lost count. I’m not sure if I count meeting up for lunch,” he teases.

“You just let me know when we’ve reached your five dates, then,” Draco murmurs, tilting his head to press a kiss to the crown of Harry’s head.

“Hmm,” Harry assents. His eyelids are heavy and getting harder and harder to keep open. The heat coming from Draco’s body provides him with an extra layer of comfort. Before he knows it, he’s finds himself calmed by the steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing. He may just be able to sleep tonight after all.

 

____________________________

  


True to habit, Harry doesn’t sleep much. He dozes for about thirty minutes, but whenever he thinks he’s about to finally nod off, he finds himself thrust back into consciousness. He’s tossing and turning so much that the sheets become wrapped uncomfortably around his legs and restrict his limbs from sprawling out the way they want to. He feels additionally stiff in that he doesn’t want to encroach on Draco’s space. They hadn’t cuddled while Draco dozed off, and Harry feels strange about curling up against him while he’s sleeping and doesn’t even know it’s happening.

Each time he feels like he’s about to finally drift off, it feels like a switch flips somewhere in his brain and reminds him of something he should be worrying about. He stares up at his stark white ceiling, taking in a few calming breaths before rearranging himself. Draco’s presence is peculiar; Harry isn’t used to staying the night with anyone anymore, and he usually doesn’t have to worry about waking people up with his fitful sleeping. Now though, he is hyper aware of every small movement, afraid that he’ll disturb Draco when he switches sides or leaves the room to fetch a glass of water.

Hedwig looks at him curiously from where she’s curled up on the floor. Draco’s on her usual side of the bed, and Harry feels a little guilty about it. Maybe he’ll invest in a cat bed.

When he returns to his room with a cup of icy water in hand for the second time, Draco is sitting up in the bed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. He squints at Harry’s figure in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says raspily. “You’re awake.”

“Er, yes,” Harry waves his free hand in front of himself. “Evidently. Though, I could be sleepwalking.”

“Are you? Sleepwalking, I mean.”

“No,” Harry replies.

“Sounds like something someone who’s sleepwalking would say,” Draco deadpans, and Harry’s mouth twitches up in a tired smile.

“Is that something you do often?” Draco asks, reaching over to turn the bedside lamp back on.

“No,” Harry says. “Not recently. I used to, a lot, when I was younger. It drove my aunt and uncle crazy. Scared them, I think. Probably didn’t help that they hated me anyways,” he blurts out.

Draco stares at him thoughtfully.

“Come back to bed,” he finally says, patting the sheets next to him. Harry complies, depositing the glass beside his glasses on the nightstand and shuffling back into his spot. Draco shakes his head, and reaches an arm out to draw Harry in close to his side. Draco is warm from sleep, and Harry buries his nose into the soft fabric of Draco’s jumper near his shoulder, inhaling the lingering smell of laundry detergent.

“You haven’t been asleep yet, have you?” Draco whispers, bringing his hand up to toy with the hem of Harry’s shirt.

“Not really,” Harry admits, embarrassed at being found out. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be _sorry_ ,” Draco admonishes with no real heat. “You could’ve woke me.”

“You’re tired,” says Harry. “I was trying not to wake you up. Was it when I got out of bed? Or the water running?”

“No, no, neither, I don’t think. I don’t mind either way. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Magically cure my sleeping problems?” Harry offers dully, covering his mouth with his hand as a yawn escapes.

“Humor me, Harry. What helps you relax? I’m not going back to bed until I know you’re asleep,” says Draco. His hand rests unwaveringly at the small of Harry’s back, and Harry squirms.

“You’re in for a long night, then,” Harry tells him.

“I’ll deal with it. It’s the weekend, I have time to catch up, and I’m not going to go to sleep and pretend that you’re not exhausted and miserable right next to me, so don’t try to suggest it,” Draco says.

“Fine,” Harry concedes. “I dunno. We could - erm, no,” Harry fumbles. He wasn’t sure what he was about to say before it was on the tip of his tongue, and now that the thought has slipped into his conscious mind he’s too embarrassed to say it aloud.

“What were you about to say?” Draco prompts. His voice is still pitched low, and the two of them are whispering. There’s a faint breeze rattling against the windows, and Harry closes his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Harry lies, refusing to look at Draco. He doesn’t like asking for things.

“Yes you do,” says Draco. He doesn’t force Harry to look at him, or huff and roll away, like Terry would’ve done. He just sits there, Harry tucked into his side with his hand rubbing soothing patterns into Harry’s tense back. Harry’s stomach rolls as his thoughts tumble around his head. He hates the feeling of wanting to say something, to ask for something, but being so afraid of the answer that his tongue won’t cooperate, won’t let him get the words out.  

He knows that the worst thing that can happen is that Draco may say no. Which is fine, of course. But now that he’s thinking about it, he realizes how much he _wants_ it. Terry used to get angry when Harry wouldn’t ask for the things he wanted, and when Harry did muster up the courage to voice his private feelings, Terry usually thought they were silly and inconsequential. Harry’s not sure he can deal with that dismissal from Draco.

But Draco isn’t Terry. He’s witty, and kind, and he doesn’t make Harry feel like an inconvenience. Draco’s been nothing but honest and charming this past month, and if Harry can’t express himself with someone he likes as much as he likes Draco, does that mean there’s something wrong with him?

“Yeah,” Harry whispers hoarsely, finally forcing his mouth to move. Draco’s hand pauses momentarily before swiftly starting up again. He hums, urging Harry to continue.

“If you don’t mind,” Harry starts before Draco interrupts him.

“I won’t,” he says. Harry smiles a bit at that, the coil of nerves building up inside of him loosening slightly.

“Can I lay with my head on, on your chest?” Harry says quickly, stumbling over his words.

“Oh,” says Draco. “That’s all? Of course. Why would you be nervous to ask that?” He slides down the bed, bringing Harry with him so that they’re no longer upright.

Harry shrugs, too embarrassed to admit that the sound of Draco’s heart beating under his ear would remind him that he’s not alone.

Draco seems to recognize that this is the only response he’s going to get out of Harry, because he doesn’t press further.

“Alright, then,” he says, eyes flickering up to Harry, who’s still propped up on his elbow. “Get down here.”

Harry turns the lamp off once more, shifting down until he’s lying horizontally on the mattress, still not touching Draco.  

“What’re you waiting for?” Draco murmurs, his hand snaking up to cup Harry’s jaw.

“You really don’t mind?” Harry asks, enjoying the sensation of Draco’s hand on his skin.

“Not at all,” Draco reassures him. “I think I’ll rather enjoy it, actually.”

Nodding his appeasement, Harry finally allows himself to shuffle closer to Draco. He gingerly lays his head upon Draco’s chest, and Draco brings the duvet up to cover their bodies. His head raises minutely with each breath Draco takes, and the soft thud of his heartbeat reverberates through Harry’s skull. Tentatively, Harry brings his left leg up and wraps it around Draco’s own leg, so that he’s more or less straddling Draco’s hip.

“You good?” Draco asks, and Harry revels in the way the vibrations from the sound feel against his body where he’s pressed against Draco’s.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers.

He is.

____________________________

  


Saturday arrives with pounding rain hitting Harry’s bedroom window, sending rivulets of water running down the glass and distorting the view of the street below. He thinks he drifted off around half past three, and it’s just about nine o’clock when he checks his phone, which makes this the longest sleep Harry’s had in ages.

Draco is still snoring lightly from his position beside Harry. At some point throughout the night, they had shifted in their sleep so that Harry was wrapped around Draco’s back, spooning him with an arm draped across Draco’s waist. He’s hard, like he usually is when he wakes up, and he tries to distance the lower half of his body from Draco’s.

He still feels sleepy, and his eyes droop against the dull morning light that trickles in past his open curtain. Hiding his face behind Draco’s back to block out the glare, Harry lets his eyes slip closed, and breathes in Draco’s scent.

It’s been a while since he’s woken up with someone in his bed, and he had almost forgotten how nice it feels. Draco’s presence is comforting. Despite a short-lived boyfriend during his second year at university, he hasn’t had anyone stay the night in his bed. The few one night stands Harry did have were never at his flat, and Harry had never spent the night at theirs.

The heat radiating from Draco is almost enough to lull Harry back to sleep, but Draco seems to be waking up, too. He twitches and the sleepy snuffles he’d been making came to a halt.

“Morning,” Harry whispers, voice rough from disuse.

“Hmm,” Draco hums in response. Sluggishly, he turns about so that he’s no longer curled up against Harry’s front. Harry has no complaint about this, as this way he gets to look at Draco’s sleep-rumpled face in all of its glory. There are pink impressions from the pillowcase on his right cheek, and sleep boogers crusted in the corners of his usually bright eyes. Harry grins at him.

“What’re you laughing at,” Draco grumbles, reaching out to run a hand through Harry’s disheveled hair.

“You, obviously,” says Harry, snorting in amusement when Draco’s hand leaves his hair in favour of pushing Harry’s shoulder in offense.

“That’s no way to speak to someone who’s about to make you breakfast,” says Draco. His hand still rests on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry kicks softly at Draco’s feet from under the blanket they share in retaliation.

“I love starting my morning with a good old fashioned fisticuffs,” Harry replies cheekily.

The words barely leave his mouth before Draco barks out a loud laugh and tilts forward to flip Harry onto his back. Draco leans over him, his eyes dancing with amusement. Harry can’t help but mimic the expression, smiling up at him dopily.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you?” Draco asks, his fingers sneaking under Harry’s shirt and brushing softly against Harry’s tensed stomach.

“I have it on good authority that I am,” says Harry while nodding with exuberance.

“Is that so? You’ll have to put me in contact with your source, I think he may be full of it,” Draco declares challengingly.

“Yeah, I think I have his number laying around here somewhere. Something like 1-800-Draco is the worst? I’ll check for you later,” says Harry very seriously.

At that, Draco is spurred into action. He nips at Harry’s lips, and Harry opens them up on a laugh. They kiss clumsily, noses bumping and teeth clicking when Harry can’t stop laughing into Draco’s mouth. His cheeks hurt from trying to school his grin down into something more kissable, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind and his goofily snickers against Harry’s throat between kisses.

They only stop when Draco’s stomach grumbles loudly, sending them both into another fit of laughter.

Begrudgingly, the untangle their limbs and leave the snug confines of Harry’s bed. Hedwig pads across the hallway, leading the way to the kitchen and sitting patiently in front of her food dish in a silent demand for breakfast.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry waves his hand at her as he walks into the room. He needs to get the ingredients for pancakes out of the cupboards. He isn’t sure why they even bothered to put them away last night, considering they’d need them in the morning, but he supposes that’s what happens when two slightly horny men go grocery shopping at one o’clock in the morning.

“Draco, feed her, would you?”

“Sure,” says Draco hesitantly. “Where is her food?”

“Just there, in that cupboard next to your foot,” Harry says before turning and reaching into the fridge.

“This one?” Draco asks, peering into the cupboard where Harry keeps cleaning supplies.

“No, the one by your other foot,” says Harry, amused. Draco is kneeling on the cold kitchen floor in his joggers, his hair sticking up from sleep and Hedwig purring in circles all around him, butting her snowy head against his thigh.

“Ah,” Draco says as he locates the bag of food. Hedwig’s purring intensifies, and Draco laughs fondly at her. “What a sweetheart,” he coos and runs a pale hand over her long fur.

“She’s marvellous,” Harry agrees, grinning. He takes the carton of eggs they bought last night out of the fridge. “She’s got my back.”

“That makes two of us,” Draco murmurs, just loud enough for Harry to hear. Harry flushes, but even his bashfulness can’t stop him from looking down at Draco as he pats Hedwig affectionately while she tries to knock the scoop of her food out of Draco’s hand.

“She’s insatiable,” Draco huffs, finally heaving himself off of the floor.

“Kind of like you,” says Harry, trying to school his face into a blank look, and hoping that he’s succeeded. Draco’s got a wicked poker face, and despite Harry’s trouble vocalizing his thoughts, his face does plenty for him without his say in the matter.  

“Oh, well aren’t we clever this morning,” Draco teases, advancing on Harry and backing him into the hard edge of the counter.

“You’re only proving my point,” Harry says as Draco slides his thigh between Harry’s slightly parted legs. The egg in Harry’s tightened grip cracks, sending yolk oozing between his fingers.

“Wait,” Harry says, torn between the toe curling feeling of Draco’s lips against his adam’s apple, and the comical broken egg dangling in his right hand.

“What’s wrong,” Draco breathes, and chooses that moment to suck on a particularly sensitive part under Harry’s jaw.

Harry moans through his laughter, but brings his hand covered in yolk up to Draco’s face so he can see the damage for himself.

“So uncivilized,” Draco rolls his eyes. “If you touch me with that, I swear …”

“What?” Harry prompts. “You mean to tell me that you don’t want me to smear this yolk across your face?”

“As crazy as it may sound to you, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Draco says, and dodges the fingers Harry waves at him.

Reaching behind him, Harry turns on the faucet and washes away the remains of the egg from his finger.

“Ta,” Draco says, finally backing away from Harry so that they’re both no longer pressed against the counter.

Harry rolls his eyes in response, pushing Draco away gently and returning to his pile of ingredients on the counter. Draco rounds the island, sliding onto a stool opposite Harry before grabbing the larger bowl for the dry ingredients.

“We’ll each do half, then?” Draco says while dumping flour into the bowl.

“Alright,” Harry agrees, and fishes another egg from the carton.

“Don’t break that one,” Draco says, and Harry promptly flicks the remaining droplets of water from the sink at Draco’s face.

“Watch it,” Harry warns jokingly. Draco doesn’t respond, but Harry can see the way his mouth twitches in amusement as he stirs the flour and sugar together.

They work together in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the pattering of rain against the windows and the scraping of spoons and bowls. Hedwig is still eating contentedly, her fluffy tail swishing behind her.

Harry smiles to himself, pleased. This feels right.

Before he knows it, there’s a pile of fluffy buttermilk pancakes with chocolate chips steaming on a plate between them with a bowl of sliced strawberries and kiwis waiting to be used as toppings.

“I reckon we did a pretty good job,” Harry comments, forking two pancakes onto his plate.

“I’ll have to agree with you on that one,” says Draco. He watches Harry scoop a generous portion of fruit onto his pancakes, before rising from his chair and heading to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of chocolate sauce that he snuck into their basket last night at the grocery.

“No fruit?” Harry says when Draco returns to the table with the bottle in hand.

“No,” Draco says frankly, and squirts an excessive amount of the chocolate topping over his breakfast.

“You’re the one who suggested the fruit in the first place,” Harry points out. He’s glad Draco did, because it tastes delicious, but he’s a little confused about why Draco bothered if he wasn’t going to eat any.

“I prefer chocolate. I’m indulging myself,” Draco says, forking a large bite into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, his cheeks puffed out adorably. There’s a tiny speck of chocolate sauce on his lower lip, a stark contrast to the pale pink. Harry aches to kiss it away.

“Fair enough,” says Harry easily. He reaches across the table and nicks the chocolate from Draco’s sticky fingers. “I’m indulging myself, too.”

“You should more often,” Draco mumbles behind a bite of pancake.

“Probably,” Harry says in agreement. He extends his hand across the table, pulling Draco’s fingers away from his napkin so that he can hold his hand. Draco smiles softly at him, and Harry has to grind his feet into the kitchen tile to stop himself from lunging across the table and smother Draco in kisses, pancakes be damned.

But, they worked hard for these pancakes, going to the store so late at night and all, and they are rather tasty. They’ve got the whole day, hopefully, for kissing - and perhaps more.

“Can I ask you a question?” Draco blurts suddenly. Harry takes a gulp of his milk before nodding. Draco’s hand tightens minutely on his.

“Sure,” he says. He isn’t sure what Draco’s planning to ask, but his face is pinched, which sets off a twang of worry in Harry.

“You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to, of course,” Draco begins, and Harry’s worry only intensifies.

“Okay,” Harry says slowly. He sets down his fork on his plate, running his tongue nervously across his sticky lips. “I won’t. What is it?”

“It’s just that last night, you mentioned your aunt and uncle,” Draco pauses. “You mentioned that they hated you. Why do you think that?”

“I don’t _think_ that,” Harry says, starting to pull his hand back towards him, wanting to cross his arms defensively, but Draco holds him steady. “I know it. They gave me plenty reason to know they did. Do.”

“Are they the ones who raised you, then?” Draco asks quietly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah. I was only a baby, I don’t, er, really remember my mum or dad much, if I’m honest,” Harry admits with a lump in his throat.

“That couldn’t have been a pleasant childhood. Growing up with people like that,” Draco remarks.

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t know anything else. Not until I met Ron, anyways. The Weasleys are the closest I’ve got to family. It’s fine, it’s in the past now, and I don’t have to see them again, so …”

“Good riddance,” Draco huffs. He reaches his foot under the table, nudging their toes together. Harry musters up a smile for him. Talking and thinking about the Dursleys in any capacity makes him exhausted.

“I’m sorry for asking, you just seemed so … bitter, last night, and I wanted to know.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says truthfully. “If I didn’t want to answer, I wouldn’t have. Besides, you’re one of the few people I actually trust nowadays. It feels nice to, to be open, with someone.”

Draco sighs, his fingertips rubbing tiny circles into Harry’s palm. “I’m really glad you feel that way,” he murmurs. “I do, too. Maybe tomorrow we can talk about my deadbeat father,” he says sarcastically, and Harry snorts.

They polish off the pancakes, trading comments about football predictions and the upcoming holidays, leaving only two pancakes behind on the plate, both of them insisting that they couldn’t possibly eat any more. Harry eventually takes them and finds some tupperware so he can put them in the fridge. Maybe now Draco won’t worry about his meal plan for tomorrow.

“For later,” Harry tells Draco who looks back approvingly.

“You’re learning,” Draco says, and Harry scoffs, shutting the fridge and leaning back against it, rocking from foot to foot. It amazes Harry how fast they can go from a hushed conversation about their childhood to easy banter. He’s never had this kind of back and forth with someone before. Draco’s so dynamic, so witty, and Harry is enjoying being kept on his toes. It’s refreshing.

“So,” Harry says, ignoring Draco’s comment. “D’you, er, have any plans today?”

“I’m visiting with Blaise this afternoon, but that’s not until four. I was thinking maybe we could do something, if you’d like,” says Draco, leaving the table and depositing their dirty plates into Harry’s empty sink. He turns the faucet, pouring in a healthy dollop of dish detergent. Harry watches, transfixed. Draco’s hair falls over his eyes when he bends over the sink, rinsing the mess away. He leans his head against the fridge, the soft whirring of the freezer blending into the rush of thoughts that run through his mind.

“I, yeah, I would,” Harry responds quickly, still watching Draco’s slim fingers move under the running water. He truly does have the nicest hands, Harry thinks.

“Do you have a drying rack?” Draco asks suddenly, looking around the kitchen in search of somewhere to lay the sopping dish.

“Er, no,” Harry says. He grabs a cloth from the oven handle, crossing the kitchen to stand next to Draco. “I usually just dry them right away,” he explains, gesturing for Draco to pass the plates to him.

He does, and Harry takes them, one by one, and dries them methodically, pointedly ignoring the way this domestic behaviour makes his insides squirm in glee.

“Well,” Draco says when they’ve finished. They walk back to the living room, settling into the sofa. “What would you like to do?”

“Well, there’s not a ton of time between now and four,” Harry thinks aloud. He looks at his watch - it’s almost noon.

“What? There’s still a few hours,” Draco says. “And, well, I’ll only be with Blaise until around six - maybe we can go out, afterwards?”

“Us?” Harry says, tucking his feet under his body.

“No, I meant Hedwig. Yes, Harry, you and I,” Draco says drily. “Honestly, sometimes …”

“I was just checking!”

“You needn’t have,” reassures Draco. “So what do you say? A date, tonight?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees readily, heart thumping. “Did you, did you want me to make dinner?”

“That’s truly sweet, but I don’t want to deplete your new food supply.”

“Ha ha,” Harry replies, unamused. “I am a good cook, you know.”

“You’ll have to cook for me sometime, then. I didn’t mean dinner, though. I was thinking we’d switch it up a bit.”

“Oh?” says Harry, intrigued. “What d’you have in mind, then?”

“How do you feel about surprises?” Draco asks, scooting closer to Harry.

“Hate them,” Harry says bluntly, and Draco pitches forward, laughing into Harry’s chest.

“Not the response I was expecting there, Harry,” he says.

“Would you rather I lie?” Harry asks, half kidding. “We can rewind this bit, or something.”

“No, no,” Draco insists. “That is the absolute last thing that I want you to do. It’s not a big deal, truly. I was just thinking - we’ve mentioned footie a few times now. How would you feel about going to a match?”

“I - really?” Harry asks, eyes alight in excitement. Arsenal is playing Chelsea tonight.

“Really,” Draco says, mirroring Harry’s look. “I have a mate at the box office, I can get us tickets, if you want them.”

“Yes,” Harry nods enthusiastically. He reaches behind him, searching for his wallet which he’s sure he’s left on the coffee table. When Draco realizes what he’s doing, he reaches out and pulls Harry’s arm back towards him.

“My treat,” Draco insists, clasping Harry’s hands in his when he tries to pull away and locate the wallet again.

“I don’t mind, Draco. They’re what, fifty quid?” Harry doesn’t really have the spare cash to be throwing around, but this is worth it.

“Give or take,” says Draco. “But that’s not the point. I asked you, let me pay. You paid for the last date I asked you on.”

“I didn’t even know that was a date at the time,” Harry points out.

“See,” Draco declares. “Even more reason for me to pay for this one. Let me, Harry.”

“You’ll let me pay for our drinks, then,” Harry compromises.

“The booze is your responsibility, got it,” Draco says.

“Alright, then,” Harry settles back into the cushions. “D’you want to watch the telly for a bit before you leave?”

“I’d like that,” Draco says. He grabs the remote and tosses it to Harry, who catches it deftly.

Draco whistles. “Nice reflexes, Potter.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies, smirking. All of a sudden, he realizes that he doesn’t know Draco’s last name - Draco hadn’t mentioned it before, had he? Surely Harry would remember if he had. Just as Harry was about to open his mouth to ask, Draco’s phone begins ringing obnoxiously.

“Sorry,” Draco says. “I have to take this. Start the show, I’ll be right back.”

Harry nods, and begins scrolling through Netflix, the mystery of Draco’s last name forgotten as he tries to decide what to watch.

____________________________

 

Draco pulls up in front of Harry’s building just after 6 o’clock. They’re both wearing Chelsea blue, and Harry’s pulled on an old beanie Ron gave him for Christmas a few years back. Harry fixes him with a pointed look when he climbs in the car.

“Drive like a normal person who cares about safety, yeah?”

“I’ll think about it,” says Draco in reply. His eyes dart over and meet Harry’s, and he winks.

“Mhm,” Harry says. “D’you think they’ll win?”

“Probably. They usually do over Arsenal. With Hazard out, though …”

“I think they’ll be fine. Either way, it’s gonna be fun.”

“If you say so. Hey, pass me a mint from the glovebox, will you?” Draco says, turning his palm over.

Harry flips it open and rummages around for the mints. Despite the impeccable state of the car, the glovebox is in absolute disarray.

“Messy,” he tuts, finally locating the mints and handing one to Draco. He puts the box back in, and notices an old photo, bent and half buried in the mess. Impulsively, he pulls it out, and immediately slams a hand over his mouth to muffle the bark of laughter he releases at the sight of it.

“What?” Draco says, focused on the road, for once.

“Er, nothing,” Harry chokes. “Just found a photo. Didn’t know you were a fan of feather boas, though,” he adds as seriously as he can muster.

The car swerves and Harry curses.

“Put that away,” Draco insists, waving his left hand in Harry’s face, trying to grab the polaroid from him.

“No, I quite like it,” Harry teases. “Very fashionable. Can I make a few copies? Put them on bulletin boards at work, maybe?”

“You most certainly cannot.”

“But you look so cute.”

“I was drunk.”

“You’re wearing a lime green feather boa, Draco.”

“I was _drunk,_ Harry!”

Harry looks away from the picture, and finds Draco blushing furiously and pretending to be very interested in the traffic lights at the intersection.

“Can I keep it?”

“I’ll turn this car around,” Draco threatens, trying to sound menacing. His lip twitching in amusement gives him away.

____________________________

 

Arsenal wins the match, and Harry’s throat is hoarse from yelling so much.

“Knew they’d lose without Hazard,” he grumbles.

“That’s not what you said,” mutters Draco, grabbing Harry’s hand and dragging him back from a group of rowdy fans who look as though they’re about to start throwing punches. The crowds in the arena are unreal, buzzing with excitement and anger and passion, and Harry loves it. The thrill of the game makes him feel alive, and makes him yearn for the days when he played with Ron and his brothers in the field behind their house.

It’s dark out now. The night sky is practically black and void of stars, thanks to the thick layer of clouds that seem to perpetually cover the London sky.

They slowly make their way out of the arena, joining the flood of other spectators as they flow onto the streets, beginning to walk back to their parked cars or to the Underground. Harry is still clasping Draco’s hand, grateful for the warmth it provides. It’s chilly, and Harry is sure his face is flushed bright red with a mixture of cold and excitement. Draco hums along softly as they walk, nudging Harry every now and then to remind him to turn a corner or speed up so they can pass slow walkers.

When he thinks Draco isn’t paying attention, he’ll shift his gaze to the side and admire the sharp slope of Draco’s nose, the quirk of this lips, the golden stubble that glints as they pass shop windows.

Smiling to himself, Harry tightens his grip on Draco’s hand and breathes in the fresh winter air.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Thanks for all of your patience while I uploaded this chapter. I'm still having some issues with the last portion of this fic, so I split what would've been the final chapter up into two parts. Now, there are five chapters and this is the fourth. Hope you enjoy!!

Sunday is boring, as Sunday’s typically are, but Ron and Hermione have invited him over for lunch and an afternoon of relaxing. Grateful for the distraction, Harry ensures that Hedwig has fresh food and water before heading out, knapsack with his laptop and a book that Hermione had lent him a few weeks ago in hand. Ron is frying up bacon in the kitchen when he arrives, and Hermione has one of her favourite citrus candles burning in the living room. The combination of scents is probably strange, but Harry thinks that the whole apartment smells heavenly.

When Hermione sees that he’s finished reading  _ The Demise of Hank Gopher _ , she beams. 

“Did you like it?” she asks, ushering Harry into the kitchen so that they’re sitting at the small table while Ron cooks.

“Hey,” Harry acknowledges Ron before answering Hermione. “I did. I do have a question, though, about the last bit. That was sort of a parallel, right? To the beginning when he met Janice in prison?”

“Yes!” Hermione squeals, flipping through the book until she finds the chapter in question. “Look, the dialogue is nearly identical.”

“I thought so. I liked that bit. The whole book, really. Thanks, again,” Harry says. 

“Of course. There’s a few more I think you’d enjoy, we can look at them in a bit, if you’d like?” Hermione offers.

“Sure,” Harry says, touched. Ron coughs from the stove, gesturing to the toaster across from him which has just spit out four slices of slightly burnt bread. 

“Someone wanna get that, yeah?” Ron prompts, and Hermione scoots across the kitchen and looks at the toast in disgust.

“These are inedible,” she complains. 

“They’re not that bad,” says Harry.

“Just scrape off the burnt bits,” suggests Ron. “Mum does that, sometimes.”

“I don’t believe Molly Weasley has burned anything in her life,” Harry laughs, and Ron rolls his eyes. 

“If Fred and George were distracting enough, she would.”

“Remember when they convinced you that your toe was going to fall off?” Harry says, quirking a brow in amusement. 

“Yeah, and I remember when you thought you were going to die when they shoved that weird flower into your nose,” counters Ron, and Harry scoffs a little, but feels the blooming of fond nostalgia in his chest. 

Hermione is already popping down more bread into the toaster, ignoring the pair of them. 

It turns out Hermione has at least a dozen books she wants Harry to read, and Harry admits that they all do sound rather interesting. He doesn’t want have to lug them all home at once though, so he sorts them into piles while Ron searches for a movie to watch and Hermione dries the dishes from their brunch. There’s a few pieces of bacon and orange slices left, and Harry picks at them while he glances through the novels. 

Ron seems to be in the mood to watch a sports documentary, which Hermione is surprisingly also okay with. Harry, however, feels as though he’s had enough of sports for the weekend, and that the documentary will be pathetically pale in comparison to all the fun he had last night. 

Ron just shrugs when he suggests they watch a superhero film instead, and Hermione nods along, saying she’s fine with that, as long as it doesn’t exceed two and a half hours in length - she has an art class this afternoon with Luna. 

She’d met Luna through Ron at a work party, and they instantly became fast friends. Luna was fascinatingly sweet and incredibly honest, two qualities Hermione particularly admired. Now they go to art class, and yoga, and even the pub on weekends. Harry and Ron tag along, too, and sometimes Dean or Ginny or one of the others will pop in for a pint and a chat. It’s all good fun, but they haven’t been out in a few weeks now, and Harry misses it.

“Hey,” he says, while the opening credits are rolling. “We should all go to the Leaky, it’s been a while.”

“Sure,” says Ron, passing Hermione a knitted throw to curl up under. “Obviously not tonight.”

“I have to be up at five tomorrow to get ready for that lecture, so definitely not,” Hermione chimes in. Harry smiles, proud. Hermione’s just finishing her PhD, and the undergraduate class she’s teaching this semester is being observed by her supervisor, and she’s incredibly excited and nervous about it. He and Ron know she’ll do just fine. 

“‘Course,” Harry says. “Maybe next Friday, then?”

“Should be fine,” replies Ron, eyes darting over to Hermione, who nods eagerly. 

“I’ll tell Luna to let the rest know,” she says, and then the movies begins, and they all shut their mouths. 

  
  


____________________________

 

Draco takes Harry out to dinner on Wednesday evening, and it’s the first time since Saturday that Harry’s seen him for more than twenty consecutive minutes. He’s been incredibly busy at work, and Harry has been as well, making them both too exhausted to plan any evening activities. They’ve settled for brief morning coffees in the break room, and on Monday Draco brought a tea biscuit to Harry’s desk after lunch, earning him odd looks from people around the office. 

Harry wishes his coworkers would stop reacting so strangely whenever Draco visited their floor - once, Parvati had dropped an entire stack of pamphlets, and thanks to Colin’s ridiculous fan that he kept running 24/7, they went flying in every direction imaginable. Another time, Ernie glared at Harry so intensely that Harry began to wonder if his contempt had more to do with the fact that it was two blokes and less to do with Harry snagging the most handsome guy in the office. However, Ron had told him that he’d seen Ernie at Pride a few months back, so that can’t be it either.

Harry tries not to let it bother him. After all, they’re not engaging in PDA, or bickering, which is more than he can say for other couples he knows at Malfoy and Associates. It’s nice, knowing he gets to see Draco after work today. It gives him something to look forward to, and definitely makes the day more enjoyable. He tells Draco as much as they get seated in the restaurant that night.

“Agreed,” Draco huffs tiredly. “Work has truly been something else, and we’re only halfway through the week.

“No rest for the wicked,” says Harry, fiddling with the menu. This is the second time they’ve been to this particular restaurant, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to order the same meal as he did the last time, but he likes to peruse the menu anyways. 

“Ha ha,” says Draco, sipping at his glass of water. He hands his lemon slice over to Harry, who happily plops it into his own glass. “That’s what I get for being the boss,” he says, and Harry laughs absently at the joke, focusing on trying to read the fine print on the menu. 

“Does this say ‘gluten-free’ or that there is a gluten  _ fee _ ?” Harry asks, squinting. 

“I’m not sure what page you’re looking at, but I’m going to go with the first one,” Draco replies, leaning over the table to look at the spot Harry’s pointing to with his finger. “Yeah, gluten-free,” Draco confirms, settling back into his seat. 

“I think I need a new prescription,” Harry comments, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. 

“Maybe you just need to clean your glasses,” says Draco. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry takes them off of his face to examine the lenses. “Y’know what, you might be right,” he says, using the hem of his shirt to wipe the foggy glass.

“Wait, can you say that again? I want to get it on tape,” says Draco, reaching for his phone. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry replies good-naturedly, toeing Draco’s foot under the table. 

“Maybe later,” Draco mutters, and Harry chokes on the sip of water he just took. 

Just in time, the waiter saunters over to their table, and Harry is saved from having to formulate a response.  After he takes their orders, Harry gets Draco’s attention by poking at his arm where it’s resting atop the table. 

“I was wondering something,” he starts, waiting until Draco glances away from his drawing in the condensation on the side of his glass of water. 

“Sure,” Draco says, resting his chin on his fist, blinking languidly as he waits for Harry to continue. 

“I’m going to the Leaky on Friday with a group of friends - mostly from uni, but I thought maybe you’d like to come? They really want to meet you,” says Harry, fiddling with his napkin. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” begins Draco, but Harry shakes his head quickly.

“You wouldn’t be. They told me to ask you along,” he explains. “Besides, I want you to come.”

“Well how can I argue with that?” Draco huffs, sticking his tongue between his lips slightly while he teases. 

The meal ends up being delicious, and they top it off with a decadent chocolate cheesecake that has Draco and Harry practically salivating at the table. By the time they finish, the sun has long since disappeared for the night, so Draco immediately cranks the heat when they make it back to his car. 

“We’re definitely going back there for that cake again,” Harry says while adjusting the temperature of his backrest.

“I could die a happy man if could eat that every day,” Draco agrees wholeheartedly, shooting Harry a tiny grin before pulling out of the parking lot. 

They ride back to Harry’s flat while chatting appreciatively about the food, the soft sounds of the radio filling the gaps in conversation.  Draco pulls up to the curb outside of Harry’s building, and Harry feels disappointment rising now that the evening has come to an end.

“D’you wanna come in?” he asks suddenly, turning to Draco. Draco blinks slowly, and when his lids flutter open, his eyes have taken on a new glint; instead of their usual light grey they’re beginning to blend in with the darkness of his expanding pupil. Draco leans over the centre console to slide his hand up Harry’s neck to cup his jaw and draw him close. He locks their lips in a searing kiss, and Harry fumbles clumsily with his seatbelt, straining to get closer to Draco.

He wraps his hand underneath Draco’s armpit, grasping the back of his right shoulder while his other hand continues to struggle with the seatbelt. They swap kisses, and Draco obligingly opens his mouth when Harry’s tongue pokes at his lips. The car, which Draco had turned off upon their arrival, is beginning to steam up, and Harry can’t bring himself to care. He makes a noise of frustration, though, when his scrabbling hands fail to find the buckle. 

Draco chuckles from where he moved his lips against the underside of Harry’s jaw, and reaches down between them to deftly release Harry from the seatbelt before continuing to suck on his neck. 

Harry is just about ready to reach for Draco’s zipper when Draco pulls back and places a chaste kiss on his lips.

“So?” Harry breathes heavily. “D’you wanna?”

“So badly,” Draco says, darting in to kiss Harry once more, this kiss more toe-curling than the last. Harry, thrilled, begins to open the car door so that they can get inside as soon as possible and continue this more comfortably, and preferably, horizontally. Instead, Draco pulls him back into the car, and Harry turns to him in confusion. 

“Do you mind if we head back to mine instead? It’s just that I promised my neighbour I’d check in on her cat while she’s out of town this weekend, and I’ve already been gone all day,” Draco says apologetically. 

“Oh,” Harry says, a little surprised. “Oh, yeah, sure, why not.” The thought of finally seeing Draco’s place lights an excitement within him, and he deftly buckles up once again. “Let’s get going, then.”

“Should I speed?” Draco asks, poker faced.

“Normally the answer would be no,” Harry says slowly, thinking about it. “And even though I’m really fucking hard right now, the answer is still no. We can’t have sex if we’re dead.”

“Touché,” Draco replies, and carefully backs out of the driveway with his hand stretched behind Harry’s headrest. 

The ride to Knightsbridge has Harry nearly squirming in his seat. Shortly after they left Harry’s, Draco stretches his hand across the console to grip Harry’s thigh. The fabric of Harry’s trousers may as well be on fire from the heat he feels from Draco’s touch. Warm and excited, Harry cracks the window to breathe in the cool night air in an attempt to calm down a bit. 

 

____________________________

 

It only takes five minutes for Draco to feed Lady Meri, Mrs. Jones’ aging tabby with a missing tail, but to Harry it feels like a lifetime. He’s been wanting Draco for so long - not just tonight, but for weeks. He’s restless with it, and by the time he and Draco tumble through the door to Draco’s swanky flat, Harry is already fumbling to get their clothes off. 

“Slow down,” Draco laughs gently. “There’s no rush.” Harry kisses him in lieu of giving a verbal response, slowing his lips from their previous fervour. 

“So you don’t mind if I take my time, maybe wander around the place a bit before we head to the bedroom?” Harry teases when they break apart. 

“Well, I mean, if you’d like to …” Draco says awkwardly, and Harry, having already toed off his shoes, surges up to give Draco another kiss.

“Take my damn clothes off already,” he whispers, and Draco’s hands fly into action, deftly unbuttoning Harry’s jeans. Harry returns the favour, shimmying Draco’s slacks down his thighs, kissing incessantly the whole while. The lights aren’t even on, but Harry feels no need for them. This close, he can feel every movement Draco makes. They’re breathing heavily, Draco leading them slowly backwards through the flat, shedding clothes as they go. They finally reach what Harry assumes is Draco’s room, and Draco twists the knob and lets them through the threshold. Still moving, the back of Harry’s knees make contact with the mattress, and he lets himself be pushed back onto it. Draco lands on top of him, and Harry brings a hand down to give his arse a squeeze.

“You look so good,” Draco says on a whisper. His eyes are wide and roaming over Harry’s body. Harry knows he’s blushing when he feels a telltale wave of heat rush over him and covers his face with the hand that isn’t resting on Draco’s arse. 

“Stop saying shit like that,” he says, his voice coming out muffled from behind his palm.

“What? It’s true,” Draco says before reaching for Harry’s hand and lowering it so that they’re fingers lay intertwined atop Harry’s chest. 

“Whatever,” Harry mutters, but cuts off any potential response from Draco by surging upwards to capture his lips. They kiss slow and unhurried, and Harry’s stomach surges with want with every movement. Harry likes that about Draco; he kisses like he means it. Whether it’s eager and unbridled, or gentle and chaste, Harry feels Draco in each kiss. 

He’s completely naked now, and Draco almost is, too. His black pants are stretched tight over his straining erection, and Harry writhes against the feeling of the fabric rubbing up against him.

“You should take them off,” Draco says against his mouth, rolling his hips again to make his point.

“Maybe if you ask nicely,” Harry teases, running his hand upwards from Draco’s arse until his fingers slip under the elastic waist of Draco’s pants.

“I’m not nice,” Draco replies, snorting. Harry rolls his eyes, and pulls them off anyways, so that he and Draco are both naked. Their bodies are warm, and Harry thinks he’s sweating a bit already. His left hand is back to cupping Draco’s arse, massaging lightly and keeping Draco pulled close against him. 

They’re warm in their bubble, and the sheets below them are mussed up from the amount of rolling around they’ve been doing. They’re silky, too, which Harry supposes makes sense when he thinks about whose bed this is. Draco’s room is a mixture of sleek furniture and oddly patterned quilts and old photographs. The soft green walls are almost grey, and the large glass door leading to the balcony is opened a crack, allowing cool air to circulate through the room. The air around them is cold in comparison to their bodies, and Harry feels so, so content to be pressed against Draco. 

Draco disintangles his hand from Harry’s, and begins to slowly crawl backwards on the bed, leaving a trail of blazing kisses across Harry’s shivering chest in his wake. Harry closes his eyes and revels in the feeling, only for them to shoot open in surprise when Draco’s hands reach the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, nuding them open gently with his sure hands. His grey eyes dart up to meet Harry’s, and Harry smiles softly down at him. 

“Pass me the lube,” Draco murmurs, and Harry reaches blindly behind him, searching for the small bottle he saw Draco place on the nightstand. When he locates it, he sits up in bed and passes it to Draco. Once it’s handed over, Harry reaches out to hold Draco’s neck, dragging him in for a sloppy kiss, their breath getting more laboured after each passing moment. 

Draco’s fingers are gentle but firm, slowly tracing up and down the cleft of Harry’s arse. Harry lets out a heavy breath whenever he hovers over his taint, the touch barely there but enough to light up Harry’s insides. 

He’s gentle the whole time, considerate and really fucking sexy when he whispers in Harry’s ear, asking him if his fingers feel good. He’s hitting Harry’s prostate so dead-on that Harry sees stars, and Harry thinks Draco’s bicep may end up with permanent indents from Harry’s grip, which is slowly slipping as their bodies become slick with sweat. Harry sucks kisses onto Draco’s neck, moaning when Draco twists his fingers  _ just right.  _

By the time Draco is lining up his cock, Harry’s stretched so thoroughly that Draco thrusts all the way in, filling him up so perfectly that Harry loses his breath.

Harry moans, wrapping his leg behind Draco’s back and pulling him in closer so that they’re pressed flush together. He can’t help but smile a little when Draco grinds into him, sending electricity up his spine. He feels so good - here, with Draco. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start off by saying: I am SO sorry for this ridiculously long wait. This fic was all finished when I started posting chapters, but I wasn't satisfied with this last one, and it led to many re-writes. I didn't want to publish something I wasn't happy with, and luckily for you folks, I am finally content with this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for all of your patience! Without further ado, here is chapter five!

Waking up next to Draco is always a treat. For one, it means that Harry was actually asleep, which is a miracle in and of itself. Additionally, it means that Harry gets to lie in bed with his arms wrapped around his gorgeous boyfriend. This morning, however, is a Thursday, so the sleepy haze of morning doesn’t last for very long - Harry wakes up to the blaring sound of Draco’s alarm.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Could that be any louder?”

“Yeah,” Draco says. “I think it’s at an eight right now - want me to turn it up for you?”

“ _Un_ believable,” Harry says, before shoving a pillow over his head to drown out the sound.

“Are we still going to the Leaky tomorrow?” Draco asks, his voice sounding far away. Harry nods without moving the pillow, to sleepy to talk any more than he already has.

“What was that? I couldn’t tell with the pillow covering your _entire_ head,” Draco says, before yanking it away unceremoniously.

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry grumbles, shielding his eyes from the bright light above him, until Draco pulls away his arms, too.

Harry squints against the light and tries to focus on Draco’s blurry face without his glasses with not much luck. Draco laughs a little, and Harry frowns.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, about to flip back over and try to fall asleep.

“Nothing,” says Draco, climbing onto the mattress and pushing Harry down so that he’s laying flat on his back. “You just look, really, really cute, sweetheart.”

 

____________________________

 

In a lucky twist of fate, Luna somehow managed to snag one of the coveted corner booths, and she, Ginny, and Dean are already sitting around the heavy wooden table by the time Harry arrives with Ron and Hermione in tow. Harry likes sitting in  the booths considerably more than he does the tables; there’s more space, more privacy, and more comfort.

Draco is running a little late because of a meeting that ran longer than planned, and Seamus has informed them in their group chat that he missed the train, but is on his way. There’s already a crowd in the pub, but the secluded location of the booth allows some much appreciated quiet. Harry shuffles through the throngs of people, nearly knocking over a pint on his way to his seat. He can hear Ron snorting at him, and Harry silently flips him the bird over his shoulder.

It’s been a long week, and being able to relax with his group of closest friends settles something that had previously rattled around inside Harry. Ron splits off from Harry and Hermione to grab their drinks, while they continue on towards the booth.

“Hi,” chirps Luna, shifting over to make more room for the three new arrivals. She’s wearing a velvet shirt tucked into a pair of corduroy overalls that would look ridiculous on anyone else. “I thought your boyfriend was coming, Harry.”

“ _Yeah_ , Harry,” comes Seamus’ voice from behind him, announcing his arrival with his lilting voice floating over the hubbub. Harry pointedly ignores Seamus while he answers Luna.

“He is, he’s on the way,” Harry says, checking his phone only to see a text from Draco that says _I’ll be another 30 - sorry!_

“Oh, good,” Luna says, before turning her attention to the pictures Ginny is showing her of her latest trip. She’d gone to Romania, to visit Charlie, for three weeks. Judging by the blinding smile on her face and the amount of pictures she’d taken, Harry thinks it’s fair to assume that she thoroughly enjoyed herself.

“I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” says Dean pleasantly. Dean is always _pleasant._ Easy to talk to, easy to listen to, an all around solid mate. Harry shrugs, nodding.

“It’s all quite new, still,” chimes Hermione from Harry’s left.

“Only a few months,” Harry elaborates, watching Ron weave back through the crowd with their drinks in hand.

“I know a friend of his,” Luna says, taking a sip of her beer. Harry feels his face shift in surprise.

“Oh?” Harry questions. “Who?”

Ron’s back now, and Luna scooches over so they can all fit on the bench. He nods his thanks to Ron, taking his pint.  

“Are we talking about you-know-who?” says Ron, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“He has a _name,”_ Harry complains, and Ron mutters something that sounds like _but you don’t know it_ , but he can’t tell for sure because Luna begins speaking again.

“Yes, Blaise. Absolutely lovely. A little cold, maybe, if you’re not paying attention. He makes delicious food.”

“Sandwich Blaise?” Ron asks, reaching across the table to nudge Harry’s shoulder. Harry regrets telling him and Hermione about his choking fiasco that started because he was trying to take a photo of the friend in question.

“Yeah, that’d be the one,” Harry replies, unamused. He fluffs up his hair, which had flattened slightly from the light mist hovering in the night air. “How’d you know him?”

“Draco introduced me, of course.”

This surprises Harry even more than the initial comment, and he’s fairly certain his eyes have widened at Luna’s explanation.

“Oh,” he says again. “That’s, er, nice,” he mumbles, taking a gulp from his glass. He knows that working at the same company is common grounds for meeting, but he hadn’t realized some of his friends may already know Draco. He wonders if Neville does, too.

Ginny clicks her fingertip against her glass, grabbing Harry’s attention. The chipped cherry nail polish she’s wearing is almost the same shade as her wine.

“Is the sex good?” she asks bluntly, and Harry very nearly chokes. Hermione giggles alongside of him, watching in amusement as Harry flushes. Ginny just raises an eyebrow, taking a slow and obvious sip of her drink while she stares Harry down.

“Gin, c’mon,” Ron complains, running a hand over his face in exasperation.

“ _What_? It’s just a question. And I’m kinda waiting for an answer. Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry tells her truthfully, deciding there isn’t much of a point in trying to avoid the question. He knows Ginny well enough that it’s not something she’ll just let slide without further teasing. “It’s great."

“See?” says Ginny smugly, twisting in her seat so that Ron can see her clearly when she flips him off. “I knew he’d answer.”

Harry doesn’t quite know what to make of that, so he just rolls his eyes and takes a long gulp of his beer. Eventually, he gets wrapped up in a conversation with Seamus and Ron about the potential benefits of never being able to get drunk, a conversation that lasts long enough that he finds himself drinking his way through two and a half pints. He’s a feeling a little buzzed when Luna’s voice carries over their passionate debate.

“Draco, hi,” she says, and Harry immediately shifts over to allow for more room.

Draco grins at the group, raising his hand in greeting as he gets closer to the table.

“Hullo,” Draco says to the group, who echo the sentiment in various degrees of slurred speech. “Nice to meet you all,” he continues. He’s wearing his work trousers, and the navy button up that Harry loves so much, with the sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. He looks just as handsome as always, and Hermione raises her eyebrows at Harry, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Draco lowers himself onto the seat next to Harry, squeezing Harry’s elbow lightly in a more private greeting. There are eight of them sitting now, and the booth is big, but it isn’t really _that_ big, so things get a little squishy. All the same, Harry enjoys the feeling of Draco’s thigh pressed up against his.

“We were just talking about your mate,” Dean says, reaching across the table to shake Draco’s hand.

“Oh?” says Draco curiously. “Who?”

“There’s more than one?” Harry jokes, and Draco feigns annoyance while the group chuckles.

“I was telling them about Blaise’s sandwich shop,” Luna replies, smiling beatifically.

“Right, of course. I’m glad you two hit it off,” Draco returns Luna’s smile with a genuine one of his own.

“He’s really very sweet. He’s interested in my opinions on fruit.”

“ _Right_ ,” Ron drags out the vowel, rolling his eyes good-naturedly and offering Luna an onion ring, who gladly accepts.

“Oi, want me to grab you a drink?” Seamus asks Draco as he stands up from the booth.

“Thanks, but I’m driving Harry home,” Draco declines easily, gesturing to his glass of water, which he must have picked up at the bar before he arrived at their booth. Seamus shrugs and makes his way over to the bar.

“You are?” Harry whispers, nudging Draco. Draco tilts his neck and looks over to Harry, a soft smile gracing his face.

“If that’s alright?” Draco responds, just as quietly. Harry takes a gulp of his beer and nods at Draco over the rim of his glass.

“More than,” Harry quips, unbridled excitement bubbling up in his chest at the idea of going home with Draco. Draco must notice the blush that’s risen in his face, but he dutifully says nothing and returns to his conversation about Blaise with Luna.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it, how successful people tend to form friendships with one another?” Luna is saying when Harry dials back his anticipation enough to tune back into the conversation. Draco nods along, his finger playing with the condensation on his glass. Draco’s hands are - well, they’re a lot of things. Steady, gentle, _talented._ They’re always warm when they land on Harry’s waist or fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. They never falter when Harry bravely reaches for Draco’s hand when the two of them are walking down the street. And they feel so, so good on Harry’s body. He really shouldn’t be thinking about this while he’s sitting at a table, in public, with all of his closest friends within a few feet of him.

Looking for a distraction, Harry hurriedly gulps down the rest of his pint, and steals a couple shots that are sitting in front of Ginny, who doesn’t even turn away from her conversation with Hermione to notice him do it. The buzz he was feeling intensifies after a few minutes - he’s not sure what kind of liquor Ginny had, but he feels pleasantly fuzzy and warm.

“I’m gonna go get ‘nother beer,” Harry says, and squeezes past Draco and out of the booth before anyone can see his tented trousers. He thinks he hears Draco begin to say something, but he’s still speedy enough that he makes it to the loo without being stopped by anyone.

It’s blessedly empty when Harry opens the door, and he ambles over to the sink to splash a bit of water on his face to cool down the rising heat he feels. He can’t go back out there with a stiffy, so he walks around the bathroom thinking about all the emails he needs to answer on Monday morning until that does the trick.

He’s walking a little less steadily on his way back to the booth, the alcohol having caught up to him. His conversation with Ron and Seamus from earlier replays in his head, and he finds himself wishing he wasn’t such a lightweight.

Draco is still deep in conversation with Luna, whose eyes are sparkling as she leans across the table slightly to hear Draco above all the noise.

“We’ve known each other for a long time. I think having someone there to push you to do your best is always helpful,” Draco is saying when Harry pushes his way back into his seat, having to climb over Draco’s lap to do so. It’s a little awkward, and a lot clumsy, and Harry blatantly ignores the amused look the Ginny is giving him when he finally manages to plop down into his seat. Draco hasn’t stopped speaking with Luna during Harry’s disruptive climb across him, but his arm comes down around Harry’s shoulder, his fingertips playing with Harry’s sleeve as he talks.  

“It’s so nice that you both helped each other like that,” Luna exclaims. “It must feel good to know you’ve got someone like that in your corner.”

Oh, they’re still talking about Blaise. Harry huffs, searching for someone at the table to chat with while he picks at the plate of chips someone had ordered during his absence. Everyone seems to be already talking about something or other, so he turns his attention back to Draco in time to hear him say, “Yeah, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to about being in charge, like someone who understands the ins and outs of running something.”

“I can imagine,” Luna hums, and Harry blinks confusedly. Is Draco the head of some club, or something? He did have a lot of books at his house - maybe he’s in a book club. He’s smart enough to be, Harry knows that. Maybe Draco will let him join - it’s been a while since Harry’s had time to read, but he used to really love it. Harry pokes at Draco’s side, tired of not having anyone to converse with.

“Hm?” Draco says, turning to face him, his hand squeezing Harry’s shoulder.

“Are you in a, a book club?” Harry hiccups, trying his best to quirk an eyebrow, but he can tell by the way Draco tries to hold back a laugh that his attempt failed.

“No,” Draco says slowly. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” Harry replies. “Obviously.”

Ron snorts from across the table, drawing Harry’s attention away from Draco’s bright eyes and handsome face. “He’s a lightweight,” Ron tells Draco, before sliding a glass of water across the table to Harry. “Had it ready and waiting for you, mate.”

“It’s actually convenient,” Harry says, trying very hard to enunciate all the syllables. “A money saver.”

“Uh huh,” says Draco, pulling the water Ron offered closer to Harry. “How about you drink that, Harry?”

“I’m kinda full,” Harry admits, pushing the glass back towards Ron, who immediately shoves it back towards him.

“It’s water, not food,” Ron says.

“It’s still _filling_ ,” Harry argues. “There is no room for this inside of me, right now.”

“Then go piss, Jesus Christ, Harry.”

“I don’t need to piss.”

“Weren’t you just in the loo?” says Dean.

“No, he went to get another beer,” chimes Hermione.

“Where’s the beer, then?” retorts Dean.

“Did you chug it before you came back?” asks Ginny.

“No, I didn’t get one,” Harry admits, running a hand over his face in annoyance.

“Then where were you?” Draco asks, a little quieter than the rest.

“In the loo.”

“See!”

“I thought you didn’t need to piss?” says Ron.

“I _don’t_ ,” huffs Harry, annoyed with the turn the conversation is taking. He mutters something about not appreciating the interrogation, but no one seems to hear him over the combination of their chatter and the rumble of noise from the bar.

“So, what, you already pissed but you still don’t want water?” Seamus asks.

“Sure,” says Harry. Then, “I’m tired.”

“D’you wanna leave?” Draco asks him, still quiet. Harry looks around and finds the lights looking a little fuzzier and softer than he last remembers. Draco’s body is so warm next to him, and he doesn’t really want to move, and he definitely doesn’t want to leave his friends yet.

“No, not yet,” he says, shifting to take the glass of water from Ron. “I’m gonna drink this water, now.”

“Thank Christ,” says Ron, sitting back in his seat and letting out a breath of relief, as though Harry choosing to not drink the glass of lukewarm water would make or break his night. Maybe it would. Ron is weird about things, sometimes. Harry sips slowly but steadily at the tall glass of water, drifting in and out of conversations with his friends when he gets bored of talking about radishes with Luna, or bungee jumping with Ginny and Dean.

At some point, someone orders another plate of chips, and he picks at those, too. Draco’s hand never leaves its place on Harry’s waist, and Harry finds himself surprised by how much it doesn’t bother him that they’re being so openly affectionate in public. Hermione gives him a small, pleased smile from across the table, and Harry shifts closer to Draco’s side.

By the time they all start shifting around like they’re reading to leave, it’s nearly midnight, and half of their group seems incapable of holding in yawns for any longer. Surely a sign that their twenties are catching up to them - Harry can remember being nineteen and staying out until three, and not being ready to go home. Maybe, Harry thinks to himself as they begin to stand from the booth, this is what being an adult feels like. Although, he supposes, if he were feeling _really_ adult, he probably wouldn’t be this drunk. After bidding their farewells, which involve Harry completing a complicated handshake with Dean and a long hug with both Ron and Hermione, Harry follows Draco out of the pub and to where he’d parked his car around the corner.

Away from the golden light pouring from the pub windows, it’s cold and very dark. One of those nights where the sky looks so black and deep that the stars shine a little brighter and you feel particularly small. Harry likes nights like these, and he breathes in the cool air, revelling in the chill it sends through him. He’s holding Draco’s hand, now, their fingers wrapped together so tightly that Harry wonders if they could fuse together, if they kept them clasped that way for long enough.

They’ve been quiet on their short walk to the car, but Harry murmurs a quiet _thanks_ when Draco opens the passenger door for him. Draco shuts the door once Harry is seated, and there’s a brief moment of silence, where the whole world seems muffled and sleepy. Harry leans his forehead against the foggy window, thinks about falling asleep. The quiet is broken when Draco’s door opens, and the wind rushes by in a powerful gust, getting rid of the feeling of cotton balls in Harry’s ears.

“Want to get a donut before we go home?” Draco asks as he puts the car in drive, and Harry smiles, keeping his eyes shut. _Home._

“Sounds nice,” Harry says. He’s talking about the donuts, sort of, but mostly he means the idea of him and Draco going home together. Home, to something private and safe and theirs.

He thinks about settling down with Draco, how happy that would make him. The thought of it alone brings up a terrified excitement deep in his chest. It scares him, how bad he _wants._ He reaches out, grabbing Draco’s hand that’s not on the steering wheel.

“Alright,” says Draco, pulling out onto the road, his headlights sweeping a path of light across the pavement. Harry lets himself drift while they drive. Usually, when he’s sober, closing his eyes in cars makes him feel nauseous, but right now he’s too drunk to notice anything besides the way Draco’s hand feels in his.

He’s a little sluggish by the time they pull into the cafe’s parking lot, and he’s dreading having to get out of the car and _walk._

“Uh,” he groans. “I can’t _move_ ,” reaching aimlessly to release the seat belt despite his complaint.

“You are _loaded_ ,” Draco says, stopping the useless fumbling of Harry’s hand. “We don’t have to eat inside, I’ll just run in and bring them back to the car. We can eat them here, or back at your place.”

“Oh, good,” Harry says, relieved. His eyes are droopy, so he hears rather than sees Draco huff out a quiet laugh. The car beeps and Harry opens his eyes in time to see Draco get out and lock the doors before crossing the dark parking lot to where the cafe’s gaudy pink walls stand out against the surrounding dull pavement and boring brick buildings. There’s a design on the window that looks amateur and messy. Harry likes it.

It only takes a few minutes for Draco to come back, a paper bag darkened with grease from the donuts in one hand and a drink tray with two cups in the other.

“What’s that?” Harry asks once Draco is back next to him in the car.

“The drinks? I got us hot chocolate. You don’t have to drink it now, if you don’t want.”

Harry sighs happily, sniffing in the chocolatey aroma wafting from the cups, which Draco have placed in the cupholders. “I might dip the donut in it,” he says.

“That’s …” Draco pauses, “Really gross, babe.”

Harry ignores him, knows he’s teasing by the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners. Harry doesn’t know why, but there’s something about Draco’s crows feet that sets his heart aflutter. He thinks it has something to do with him liking Draco being happy, that _he_ made Draco happy. It’s all very sappy sounding in Harry’s head, and he thinks that maybe if he wasn’t drunk, if his tongue didn’t feel slow and clumsy in his mouth right now, he’d try and explain it to Draco. He deserves to know how happy his happiness makes Harry, right?

Harry thinks about Draco’s crinkled eyes the entire way back to his flat. He’s still thinking about it when he lets Draco lead him to the lift instead of the stairwell. He’s _not_ thinking about it when the doors slide shut and the lift takes off with a dreadful swoop that always makes him feel turned inside out. It’s dark, and stuffy, and Harry is already too warm from all the beer he had drank.

“I don’t like this,” he mutters, fussing with the zipper on his jacket, trying to get the collar as far away from his throat as possible.

“Hm?” Draco prompts, distracted with something on his phone.

“I said-” Harry hiccups. “I said that I don’t _like_ this,” he motions drowsily at the bland walls surrounding them. Harry knows he’s drunk, he knows the walls aren’t actually moving around, shifting closer and closer and _closer_ to squeezing them flat, but he feels like they _are_ and he does _not_ like it one bit.

Just as he thinks he’s about to throw up all the chips and booze and onion rings he ate over the last few hours, the doors of the lift slide open and he stumbles out into the empty hallway, relieved to no longer be breathing the stale, stuffy air in the lift.

“Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking,” Draco mutters apologetically. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to make it up so many stairs without tripping.”

“Probably not,” Harry admits, already walking towards his front door. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Alright,” says Draco, following him with the bag of donuts and hot chocolate. Harry turns his key and opens the door, walking into the darkness of his flat. Usually before he goes out he leaves a light or two on, partially for Hedwig’s sake and partially because he tends to trip up over his own feet if he doesn’t. He forgot, today. Miraculously, his drunk self seems to be better at not tripping on a sneaker and ending up flat on his arse than his sober self is.

Draco shuts the door quietly behind them, and for a moment they’re plunged into darkness until Harry’s fumbling hand manages to locate the lightswitch. Once light floods the hall, Hedwig’s fluffy figure comes into view, sitting directly across from them in the kitchen, patiently waiting next to her empty food dish.

Harry thinks he might fall over if he has to bend down and get the bag of cat food from the cupboard, so he asks Draco to do it for him.

Draco readily agrees, and Hedwig is purring like a motor and chowing down on her food in no time. Harry heads to the washroom to take a piss while he’s waiting for Draco to finish up with Hedwig in the kitchen.

“Harry?” Draco calls, his voice muffled from behind the door.

“Hmm?” Harry says, pausing before turning on the faucet. He looks at himself in the mirror while he waits for Draco to respond. His face is flushed from the alcohol, his hair a little wild from the way he had his head pushed up against the window of the car the whole way home.

“D’you want the donuts in bed, or out here?”

“Oh,” Harry hums. “In bed, definitely.” He’d almost forgotten about the donut, but as soon as Draco mentions it he’s suddenly ravenous again.

“Alright,” says Draco. “I’ll be out here waiting.”

“Okay,” Harry calls back. “I just need to brush my teeth.”

“ _Before_ donuts?” Draco asks incredulously.

“Don’t _judge_ me, Draco,” Harry replies, accidentally spraying toothpaste onto the mirror. When he tries to wipe it, it just leaves an obvious streak across the glass.

 

____________________________

 

“Hey,” Harry announces his arrival, walking into the break room, which is thankfully nearly deserted this early in the morning. It is a Monday, after all, and Harry knows now that the majority of their coworkers milk every last second of their weekend for what it’s worth.

“Harry,” Draco says, a fond smile breaking out on his face. He’s standing by the couches, a pad of paper and measuring tape in hand. Harry is a kind of confused as to exactly why, but if he’s learned one thing about Draco in these past couple months it’s that a lot of the things he does are weird and inexplicable.

Harry lets Draco reel him in for a kiss, feeling his slender hands sweep up his waist to squeeze him lightly. Harry’s heart rate skyrockets. For obvious reasons, they usually wait to sneak in kisses in more private areas, hence the frequent trips to the washroom and the janitor’s closet Harry’s been making as of late. It’s not like there’s some rule prohibiting inter-employee relationships, but it’s something Harry worries will reflect poorly on his professionalism. He quickly glances around the room, and to his horror the only other person he sees is Ernie. Who, apparently, seems to be hightailing it out of there, his body knocking against the door frame in his apparent rush to leave. Whatever, Ernie can be as dramatic as he likes. It’s not as though Malfoy would swoop onto them and chastise their break room behaviour. Harrumphing, Harry let’s Draco give him one last peck, and settles himself down on the sofa, his thigh brushing against Draco’s.

“Got much work on your plate today?” Harry asks, bumping their shoulders together affectionately.

“The usual,” Draco replies dryly, his mouth turning up into a smirk. His arm rests behind Harry, and Harry preens.

“Me too,” Harry says, leaning in to press a quick peck to Draco’s stubbly cheek before raising himself up off the couch. “Visit me later?”

“As always.”

____________________________

 

When he gets to his desk, George is there, and Ernie is whispering furiously to him, a wild look in his eyes.

“Uh, hey,” Harry greets, sliding into his chair, flicking his bag onto the floor. He hears a commotion coming from the other side of the divider, and what sounds like Ron getting shoved down into his seat, protests whispered quickly until they are suddenly muffled, presumably by George’s hand.

“Fun morning, Harry?” George says in a weird tone, moving so he’s standing over Harry, a shit eating grin on his face.

“Sure,” Harry murmurs noncommittally. George looks as if he’s about to say something else, before promptly cutting himself off, and walking at a near sprint until he reaches his tiny office at the end of the hall, door closing shut behind him.

“Bloody weird, that one,” Harry mutters to himself.

____________________________

 

Hours later, George is back again. It’s past lunch now, and the mid afternoon sun is casting streams of light across the office. Lolling his neck back in his chair, he looks up at George curiously.

“You need something?” He finally asks when it seems like he’s not going to be given an explanation for this unwanted and seemingly unneeded visit.

“Yeah, actually,” is the reply he gets, and the next thing a heavy envelope is plopped onto his desk. Harry looks down at it, perplexed. On the thick paper is the name of the person the envelope is intended to reach.  _Malfoy,_ it reads. No floor or office number attached. Everyone knows that Malfoy’s office is on the top floor, just past the glass sitting area where his mother eff-ing secretary does her work. What kind of pretentious git needs a sitting room?

“You want me to get someone to bring this up?” Harry guesses, waving his hand in the vicinity of Seamus, who is currently wiping coffee off of his own shirt. Jesus.

“You’re gonna bring it up, big guy,” George corrects, looking undeniably smug, for reasons Harry doesn’t even think he wants to know. He’s never actually met Malfoy, and he doesn’t really want to, if he’s being honest. What if he goes up there, makes a fool of himself, and gets mercilessly ripped apart by his boss for being all kinds of incompetent? No, thank you, Harry would rather replace printer ink. But, George is looking at him with this challenging glint in his eyes, one brow arched in a dare. “Directly to Malfoy.”

“Alright,” he nods, pushing himself back from his desk, slowly standing up and stretching out his legs. He looks quickly at himself in the reflection of his blank phone screen, just to make sure he looks mostly presentable. Then, he takes the envelope in his hands and heads for the stairs. Without Draco around, there’s no way in hell he’s going to risk the lift. So what if he’s gonna have to climb up seven flights of stairs?

As he’s walking into the hall, he sees a few interns gawk at him. When they notice him noticing them, they squeak, jostling against one another as they hurry to get out of his way. Harry shrugs, perplexed. Maybe they finally heard the story about when he gave George a black eye last month in their play wrestling match.

At least two other people look at him strangely as he continues his trek up the stairs, and one guy Harry doesn’t even know stops him on the sixth floor landing, and says “You’ve got nerve, mate. Props.” Harry fumbles for something to say back, having no clue how he’s supposed to respond to such a random comment. Before he gets anything out, the man is jogging down the stairs, not even looking back at Harry. Weird.

By the time he’s made it to the top floor, he’s maybe a little out of breath, sort of weirded out, and he kinda needs to piss, too. He ducks off into a small bathroom in the hallway, probably intended for visitors and potential clients. He pisses quickly, twists the sink faucet, and washes his hands. He leans in close to the mirror, picking at loose strands of curls and attempting to arrange them in a way that says _I’m a professional_ and _I’m trying, but not too hard_. He thinks he’s got it. To an extent.

Picking the envelope up from where he left it on the counter. Harry moseys into the waiting area. It’s pretty damn swanky, all leather couches and soft tones.  Harry makes his way over to the secretary - Pansy, is her name - and gives her a friendly smile. “Hullo, Pansy.”

Her eyes inexplicably widen comically, and she looks back and forth between Harry and the door that presumably leads to Malfoy’s swanky office.

“Hello,” she says politely, re-adjusting her posture so she’s facing him properly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh,” he falters, rocking back on his heels. He’s not sure why she looks like she’s seen a ghost. “No, I don’t, but I’m just supposed to drop this off?”

She eyes the envelope, and then sticks her hand out.

“To Mr. Malfoy,” he adds hurriedly. He clutches the envelope tighter in his hand, backing up so it’s out of her reach. The last thing he needs is to be in trouble for not actually doing what George says. As much as the guy fools around, when he asks Harry to do something work related, Harry makes sure to carry out the request properly. He needs this job. How else is he supposed to feed Hedwig?

“Alright then,” she replies warily. “Well you’ll have to wait a few moments, Mr. Malfoy is on a late lunch, he’ll be back on duty in-” Pansy checks her gold watch - “Eight minutes. You can take a seat,” she dismisses him after gesturing to the sturdy armchairs that line the wall behind him.

“Sure, thanks,” he agrees. He settles down in a chair, the leather a bit warm and sticky from where it’s been exposed to the sunlight filtering in from the wall of windows. He can see movement behind the frosted glass of Malfoy’s office, so at least he knows the bloke isn’t going to be half an hour late coming back from his break.

He chews at the skin by his thumbnail, a nervous tick he can’t seem to stop no matter how hard he tries. He’s focused on the robin that’s tottering about on the windowsill when he hears the telltale whoosh of a door opening, and Malfoy walks out.

Well, that’s what Harry assumed would happen. Except when he looks over, it’s not Malfoy standing there. It’s Draco.

Harry’s mouth is gaping, confused. Draco looks the same, eyes scrunched in that way he gets when he doesn’t really understand what’s going on.

“Draco?” Pansy breaks the silence. “Harry is here to drop off a file from the PR department.”

“What? No, Draco, what are you doing here?” Harry asks, thrown by Draco’s unexpected appearance. He’s not really sure what’s going on.

“Well. This is my office,” Draco replies, speaking to him as if he thinks that Harry is stupid. His tone is one that you’d use on somebody who just woke up from a coma and can’t remember their own name. Not your boyfriend who should rightfully be able to question why you’re hanging out in the boss’s office, pretending it’s your own.

“Uh, no, no it’s not,” Harry says slowly, shaking his head. This is by far the strangest joke Draco has tried to play on him. The _only_ joke Draco has played on him, actually. This isn’t Draco’s style at all. He just hopes Malfoy doesn’t come back while Draco is being all weird.

“Harry,” Draco huffs. “Yes it is. That’s my name, right there. On the door of _my_ office.” The way he says it is so matter of fact that Harry begins to flounder.

“What? No,” he insists, feeling slightly hysterical, a sick feeling bubbling up in his stomach. “You’re not Malfoy.”

“Harry,” Draco says, eyes suddenly wide, disbelief creeping into his voice. “Yes, I am.” Harry’s eyes catch on the door of the office behind Draco. There, on the frosted glass, is all the evidence he needs.

 

_Draco L. Malfoy_

 

Harry freezes.

Draco is his confidant, his favourite storyteller, a hand to hold and the only good thing that’s happened to Harry in a long time. He’s Harry’s lighthouse on a stormy sea, his own personal comedy show, and the best damn cuddler Harry has ever met.  And now, Draco is his boss. Draco is his _boss’s_ boss _,_ and somehow Draco never thought to share that information with him.

“What the fuck,” Harry spits out, surprised at himself, but even more surprised at Draco. Pansy looks alarmed, and honestly Harry had forgotten she was there.

“Harry,” Draco sounds shocked, which only serves to make Harry more angry. Draco turns momentarily, avoiding Harry’s piercing gaze. “Pansy, can you cancel my three o’clock? And lock the door on your way out?” Pansy nods before speedily dialling a number and announcing to a Mr. Clearwater that his meeting has been postponed until further notice.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Harry murmurs once Pansy’s scurrying out of the office, coat in hand. Draco looks equal parts concerned and confused.

“C’mon,” he says, reaching out in an attempt to guide Harry into his office with a hand on his lower back. Harry shrugs him off. He’s pissed, and he still can’t completely grasp what’s going on. Draco is his boss? His brain is screaming at him, over and over. It makes no sense to him. Draco looks hurt at the dismissal, but holds the door open for Harry as they walk through the door with Draco’s fucking nameplate on it.

“I thought you knew,” Draco says, once they’re in the safety of his private, enclosed, executive office that Harry had no clue existed. He supposes he knew it existed, really, but he never knew Draco owned it.

For a moment, it’s deathly silent. Harry uses the reprieve as a chance to look around the office - look anywhere but at Draco - and try to get a hold on his emotions. There’s a shag rug under his feet, and a bunch of diplomas and accolades spaced evenly out across the back wall, sunlight streaming in and casting glares across the glass frames. Draco’s desk is a mahogany beast, impeccably neat with a big leather chair resting behind it. There’s a small polaroid of the two of them from one of their lunch dates at the park tucked into a frame near Draco’s computer that Harry tries to ignore. His heart pangs.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, which, to Harry’s fury were beginning to fill with frustrated tears, Harry sighs.

“How was I supposed to know, Draco?” He finally answers. _Upset_ isn’t the correct word for how he feels. Mad, definitely. And unimportant - he feels unimportant. Not important enough for Draco to tell him his last name, and certainly not important enough to be told about the details of his private life.

Draco sighs too, sounding exasperated, looking professional and so unlike the Draco that Harry had spent the past few months with. “I have no clue. But Harry, please, hear me out. I genuinely didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop, or - or anything of the sort. I definitely hadn’t intended for you to be unaware of who I am, I mean, Christ sake,” Draco says, seemingly unsure how to explain himself and uncharacteristically inarticulate.

Harry huffs, half from anger and half from disbelief that anyone could be so clueless as to not mention something as huge as this. Voice dripping with unchecked sarcasm, he snarls. “Thanks, Draco. That makes so much sense. I understand completely now.”

“Stop being such a smartass,” Draco mutters. “C’mere, Harry.”

“No, _Malfoy_ ,” Harry spits out, frustrated at himself for being so worked up, but unable to really stop himself nonetheless. Draco is sitting on the edge of his big mahogany desk, legs splayed slightly, arms folded across his chest in an almost defensive manor. His face twitches in distaste when Harry says his name.

“Harry.” Draco’s eyes are focused in on his now, unwavering and warm. Harry wants to yell, to look away, to walk out the door and leave Draco by himself in his stupid oversized office. Instead, he edges forward, feet shuffling on the ornate rug he’s been standing on. He keeps looking at his feet, stopping short of settling himself between Draco’s legs. Draco uncrosses his arms, and Harry folds his own across his chest. He raises his eyes, but not to meet Draco’s. Instead, he leaves them unfocused on the window behind Draco’s left shoulder. He’s not really even looking at it; his vision feels blurred and he’s pretty sure there are angry tears welling up in the corner of his eyes.

He feels stupid, exposed, and inadequate.

Here he is, in love with someone who has never told him their real identity, never shared details about their job, or thought it was important enough to mention that he was Harry’s boss. How could he have missed this?

Draco must notice that his eyes were shining, because the next thing he says is, “Please don’t cry, Harry.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Harry snipes back, wiping a brisk hand over his face, pleased when it comes back dry. He finally shifts his gaze to make eye contact with Draco. The corners of his mouth are pinched, and if Harry weren’t so upset with him, he’d be ashamed for making Draco look so devastated. “This is your fault.”

“It is,” Draco says, and Harry is surprised that Draco says so.

“You’re just saying that because you know I’m mad,” Harry says, and Draco rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up.

“No, I’m not. I’m not saying this is completely on me, either. I agree now that I probably should have mentioned that I own the company, but, Harry. I thought you knew! It’s not as though I intentionally hid it from you.. We never talked about work. It didn’t feel like I was leaving anything out. I wasn’t thinking about work when we were together.”

“It sure as hell feels like you were leaving something out to me,” Harry replies lowly. That doesn’t make finding out that everyone else in the building but him knew who he was sleeping with any easier. “Like, I dunno, maybe telling me your name might’ve been a nice gesture.”

“Harry -” Draco starts, but Harry cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear it, alright? Just, just stop.”

“No, let me explain,” Draco tries, advancing towards Harry as he began to turn and reach for the door. Harry doesn’t care what Draco has to say at this point. He feels betrayed, like this has all been some sick joke. He’s been sleeping with a man he apparently knows nothing about, and it makes his stomach churn, his head spin, and his heart ache.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Harry says angrily. “I’m going back downstairs so I can _work_ , and you’re not going to bother me again. _Ever._ Got it?”

Draco’s lips are a tight line, his eyes pinched and cold. He doesn’t say anything.

Harry leaves.

 

____________________________

  


He takes a detour to the loo before heading back to his desk, taking the chance to splash frigid water over his tired face. He ends up dribbling it down the front of his shirt and sleeve, but he can’t bring himself to care.

By the time he gets back to the third floor, he’s managed to school his face into a look of cool indifference, and he can easily hide the slight tremor in his hands by shoving them into the pockets of his trousers.

Ron looks up at him and does a double take when he notices the angry flush adorning Harry’s cheeks.

“What happened?” he asks immediately, standing up and crossing the small distance from his cubicle to Harry’s. Harry remains tight-lipped, shaking his head and throwing himself into his chair. He leans over his desk, reaching for a folder of documents he’s supposed to file. Ron prompts, “Harry?” when Harry remains silent, and when the only response he gets is the shuffling of papers, he reaches out to still Harry’s hands, which Harry is disappointed to see are still shaking. It was hardly noticeable before Ron’s steady fingers paused their frantic movements, but Harry can see them tremble, now, and he’s sure Ron notices, too.

“Harry?” Ron whispers again, crouching down next to his chair, his hands still grasping Harry’s tightly.

“I-” Harry starts, eyes darting around. He’s relieved to see that nobody else has seemed to notice them. “I have to go home,” he croaks, pulling away from Ron and grabbing his coat from the hook behind him.

“Okay,” Ron agrees immediately. “Okay, let’s go. We’ll take the tube back to yours. Or mine? Would you rather come over to my place?”

“No,” Harry replies, watching tiredly as Ron fumbles to grab his own jacket. “I’d rather go home. You don’t have to come, you know.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Ron scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want to. I’m _coming_ over, I’m _making_ you pancakes, and you’re _gonna_ tell me what’s going on.”

 

_________________________________

 

“Okay, so,” Ron says from his perch on the opposite side of Harry’s couch, after Harry has explained, from the beginning, what happened. “Let me get this straight - you had absolutely _no clue_ , even after all this time, that Draco was Malfoy?”

“None,” Harry says, shovelling another forkful of pancake into his mouth. When they got back to his flat, he and Ron both changed out of their work clothes and into Harry’s sweatpants. They’re a little short on Ron, comically so, actually, but they’re better than slacks, so Ron keeps his mouth shut about it.

“Look, you know that I knew, right? I tried to tell you at the sandwich shop, remember?”

“What? No, you didn’t,” Harry says with surprise.

“No, mate, I did. And you told me to fuck off and eat my sandwich.”

“No-”

“ _Yes._ Anyways, I thought you knew by now, fuck, Harry. Or at least had a general idea of how high up he was,” Ron cuts him off, passing him the bottle of strawberry syrup.

“Well, I didn’t, so,” Harry trails off, rolling his eyes. He’s so mad at Draco right now that he has no energy left to be mad at Ron, who’s here, listening to him and making pancakes. Besides, it was never really Ron’s responsibility to tell him in the first place - and Harry is holding Draco accountable for that.

“Still, I guess I should probably say sorry,” Ron grumbles.

“Yeah, probably,” Harry agrees. He lays down his fork and picks up the television remote instead. “What do you wanna watch, then?”

 

_________________________________

 

Harry spends Tuesday and Wednesday in a bit of a daze. Every move he makes feels automatic, robotic. _Unfeeling._ Like, if he lets any emotion about boring emails or busy traffic leak through, all of the chaotic thoughts crashing through his head about Draco will spill out and he’ll lose any semblance of control he has left.

So he holds doors for strangers while he walks into his morning coffee shop, and feeds Hedwig, and texts Hermione about books. He lets Ron take him out to lunch on Tuesday, he nabs three new clients through social media posts, and he works diligently through a massive pile of reports he’d been putting off for weeks. It’s probably the most productive he’s ever been in this job, and he doesn’t even care.

He knows that Draco has tried to call him, because he has more missed calls then he can count and a dozen unread texts to go with them.

When he’s in the shower on Wednesday night, he hears his doorbell ring. He knows it’s not Ron or Hermione, because they have a key, and nobody else makes impromptu visits to his flat besides Draco. He lets the scalding water run over his head, pretends that the rush of it past his ears blocks out the sound of it ringing three more times.

On Thursday at work, Harry sees Draco out of the corner of his eye when he’s on the way to the breakroom, and he immediately turns back around and holes himself up in his cubicle for the rest of the afternoon. He makes a vow to himself that he’ll  avoid the breakroom at all costs from now on.

Friday brings a moment of weakness, and Harry ends up crying over a midnight bowl of cereal while Hedwig twists herself around his legs, purring softly while butting her head against his shins. He’s embarrassed and _mad._ Everyone at work has been acting weird around him all week, because apparently literally every other person in the building knew that Harry was dating the boss _besides Harry,_ and now they all seem to know that their relationship has shattered, leaving an awkward silence that follows Harry everywhere he goes.

He stands up, washes his cereal bowl quickly, and grabs the sandwich he made for today’s lunch and shoves it into his bag. Draco would be _proud_ , Harry thinks bitterly. Fuck him.

_________________________________

 

Harry manages to avoid Draco on Friday, too, and by the time he gets home from work, he feels like he’s just made it through the longest, most miserable week of his entire life.

He’s looking forward to a lazy weekend by himself. If he’s feeling up to it, Luna invited him along to attend a concert one of her friends is playing at a cafe in Clapham. He’s not really planning on going, but it’s nice to know that the option is there if he gets lonely or bored enough.

_________________________________

 

Harry’s luck runs out on Monday.

He’s searching the cupboards in the breakroom for the box of lemon ginger tea that he _knows_ was there on Friday afternoon, and there’s no way it’s all gone already. He sighs, frustrated, after he’s turned the cupboard inside out and still failed to scrounge up the missing tea. He’s about to shut the cupboard and go bother Neville for some pretzels when he hears a cough to his right.

“Looking for this?” a voice says - and Harry cringes before turning around. Draco is standing there, looking sheepish with the box of lemon ginger resting in his palm.

“Yeah,” says Harry, reaching out to take it. “Thanks.”

“Harry,” Draco says imploringly. “Can we _talk_? Please?”

Harry shuts the cupboard with force, and half a dozen heads turn in their direction. Great.

“No,” Harry says.

“Harry-” Draco starts, resting his now empty hand against the counter. Harry is incredibly conscious of the eyes on his back.

“Not here,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we, I dunno, go to your office, or something?”

“Yes, yeah,” Draco fumbles. “Of course. Let’s do that.”

“Okay, then,” says Harry, leaving the box of tea on the counter and turning to wait for Draco to lead the way. When he doesn’t move, Harry says, “So?”

“You’re not going to drink that?” Draco asks, pointing to the tea.

“Not in the mood, anymore,” Harry grumbles untruthfully. Draco knows him well enough to know that he’s never _not_ in the mood for tea, but he lets it go.

“Alright. Just, uh, come with me.”

Harry follows him out of the breakroom, and the walk in heavy silence down the hallway to the stairs.

“You can take the lift, I’ll meet you there,” Harry suggests, not wanting to inconvenience Draco or be in his company for any longer than necessary. He doesn’t want to yell or cry at work.

“I could, but I’d rather walk with you, if that’s alright?” Draco asks, and he does genuinely seem to be waiting for Harry’s answer.

“That’s fine,” Harry assents.

There’s no one in the waiting room when they reach the top floor, but Draco walks over to Pansy’s desk and asks her to cancel the rest of his afternoon meetings.

“That is _not_ necessary,” Harry interrupts. “I won’t be here for that long.” Draco is facing away from him, but Harry can see the way his shoulders tense below the seams of his slim fitting jacket.

“Cancel them anyways, Pansy,” he murmurs.

She nods, then motions towards her coat. “D’you want me to head out, then?”

“Please,” says Draco. “Don’t worry about those files, I’ll fix them later.”

He turns back to Harry, nodding in the direction of his office door. “After you.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Harry mutters.

“What?” asks Draco.

“Nothing.”

Draco frowns at him, but follows him across the carpeted floor and into the large office. Harry stalls awkwardly once he’s inside - he doesn’t know where to sit. There’s only Draco’s chair, and the chair opposite it on the other side of the desk. He is absolutely _not_ sitting across from Draco like this is some kind of business deal. Draco doesn’t exactly seem to know where to sit either, because he just crosses the room and perches atop the desk, facing Harry and mirroring their meeting from last week.

Harry stands where he is, feet rooted to the floor as he watches Draco’s throat bob. It’s raining an awful lot, and the grey sky casts an ominous gloom outside the window, rain pounding on the glass and sliding down in quick streams.

“Are you going to say anything?” Harry prompts, making eye contact with Draco.

“Yes, I am-” Draco starts.

“Well, get to it, then,” Harry waves his hand around. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Don’t worry about that right now, just, just focus on me for a minute, okay?”

“You’re all I’ve been focused on for _months_ ,” Harry says sharply, crossing his arms. “And I didn’t even know who you _were._ ”

“That wasn’t on purpose!” Draco replies, throwing his hands in the air.

“But you never  _said_ anything. You can’t just not say anything and then expect me to know it anyways! Where is the logic in that?” Harry demands, shifting his stance so that he doesn’t have to look at the crow swaying on the wire outside of the window.

“Listen,” says Draco.

“I’m _listening_ ,” Harry says. “But you’re not saying anything.”

“I will if you just let me talk, for fucks sake,” Draco’s voice rises, and he runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, mussing it up.

“Fine,” Harry says. “I really am listening.”

Draco shifts around a bit, eyes flitting over the room before coming back to rest intensely on Harry. It feels like his eyes are looking _right_ into Harry when he starts speaking again.

“I just want you to know that I was never intentionally misleading you. I would never do that.” Draco’s hands are hovering mid-air, wobbling a bit where he seems to be holding himself back from reaching out and touching Harry. “I don’t - I’m not proud of that name,” Draco sucks in a wobbly breath. “It reminds me of my parents, and I avoid it whenever I can. The only reason that stupid fucking name,” - he gestures angrily to the _Malfoy_ inscription on the door – “Is even involved is because my scheming father made it impossible for me to distance myself completely from him. If I wanted to keep my dream job, the name of his company had to stay.”

“I-” Harry starts to say, his throat seizing a bit as he tries to decide what to say next. He can tell Draco’s upset, and he’s not a monster, and his feelings for him haven’t evaporated overnight, as much as he may have wished that they had. So, he shuffles forwards until he’s close enough to reach out and lay a comforting hand on Draco’s arm.

“I’m glad you told me that,” he settles on, maintaining eye contact with Draco.

“You deserve to know. You _deserved_ to know a hell of a long time ago, and I mean it when I say that I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry feels a weight lift off of his chest at the apology, and decides to offer one of his own. “I’m sorry I was assuming that you were just lying for the sake of it, I know you better than that. But, Draco. When you walked out into that room that day,” he breaks off again, taking a deep breath. “I thought you were joking around this whole time, and this was all some fucking prank you were over invested in. Like you were making a joke at my expense.”

“No, I - no. Absolutely not,” Draco rushes to reassure him. “That’s not what this was about.”

“You swear? You, like, you actually like spending time with me? This wasn’t just a pity fuck, or something?” Harry presses, needing to make sure that they’re on the same page.

Draco’s hands fly up to Harry’s waist immediately, pulling him into the alcove of his thighs. “No. God, no. I swear. Every bit of this relationship has been real to me. No matter how big of a mess this became, everything has been so, so real.”

“Good,” Harry says, and lets himself tilt forwards until they are pressed together, chest to chest. He rests his forehead on Draco’s shoulder, tucks his face in until his nose is pressed against his neck.

He’s about to say something about when Draco’s steady hand runs through Harry’s hair, his gentle fingers a soothing caress over Harry’s scalp. “And, for the record, I bloody _love_ spending time with you. This is the happiest I’ve _ever_ been.”

“Really?” Harry lifts his head to meet Draco’s eyes. Draco nods, his fingers trailing down from Harry’s hair to cup his jaw. He looks at Harry’s lips, then back up at his eyes, pausing. Harry nods slightly, and Draco leans in, their lips meeting in a sweet, soft kiss.

When they pull apart, Harry darts back in to press a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips before saying, “I love spending time with you, too. I’d been … really not feeling good, about anything, before I met you, and, like, I know it sounds stupid, but you brought so much happiness into my life, and it really fucking sucked when I thought I was losing you.”

“I missed your rambling,” Draco murmurs against Harry’s lips, and Harry laughs at the unexpected comment.

“Shut up,” he says, nudging Draco’s nose with his own. “You’re no better, Mr. Monologue.”

“Wow,” Draco drawls. “Now _that_ was just mean, babe.”

“True, though,” Harry counters, and Draco just shakes his head in amusement and pulls Harry in for another kiss.

Harry leans in, lets his chest rest against Draco’s, and revels in the way it feels for their hearts to thump to the same staccato rhythm, finally together again.

He can breathe freely again now that he knows the truth. After spending so much time with Draco, studying his mannerisms and admiring his kindness, Harry can tell when Draco is genuine. Harry may not have known Draco’s last name, but he’s good at feelings, and Draco was being honest.

Words can wait, a less emotionally charged discussion of their colossal misunderstanding can wait. For now, Harry is content and warm in Draco’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that!!!
> 
> thanks for sticking around - I appreciate every comment, kudos, and bookmark more than words can describe. this is the longest fic I've ever published on ao3, and while I won't lie and say it's been easy, it has definitely been rewarding and fun. so thank you from the bottom of my heart for indulging me and my drarry nonsense.
> 
> [P.S: I'm on tumblr @sociophonetic!]

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested, my tumblr is [sociophonetic](http://sociophonetic.tumblr.com)! Come talk to me :-)


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